


Lost in Darkness, On Towards Destiny

by TCRegan



Series: Soldiers of the Wasteland [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate History, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Politics, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 34,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2584325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Centuries ago, a schism in the Chantry splintered the Templar Order. Those that seceded formed the Church of Andraste, a new faction that treated their duty to the Maker and their mages with a different hand.</p><p>Fenris, a former Tevinter slave, finds himself in need of a safe haven from his old master. After being aided by Crusader Hawke and his mage sister Bethany, Fenris seizes the opportunity to join the Order.</p><p>But Ferelden has suffered a Blight. There's much work to be done to rebuild the country, and whispers of a darker threat on the horizon threaten to shatter the tenuous peace of Thedas.</p><p>*Picks up where "Armored in Faith, Bound by Duty" left off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A gentle rocking motion and the pungent odor of fish brought Fenris to consciousness. He lay perfectly still, eyes closed, assessing any internal injuries as he was taught to do. A sudden, sharp, spiking pain through his limbs brought on a wave of nausea as the ground lurched. A ship. He was on a ship. The sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat and the creaking of wood were all he could make out, and even those noises were muted. Anticipating no immediate attack, he slowly opened his eyes. The cabin was small, dark, and windowless. His markings emitted their faint bluish white glow, allowing him to see the wall opposite, the small side table with a single unlit candle.

_Anders._

His first thought, of course, was of that damnable mage. He should have felt embarrassment, shame, that he was anticipating a rescue from his partner. In the years after escaping Danarius, he'd never needed anyone's help for long. Hiring sellswords to help him fight the soldiers that came after him, running to the next unlikely town. But never a rescuer. He was, after all, not a damsel in distress. Scowling, he sat up slowly, his head spinning, the faint smell of whatever potion Danarius had used on him still clinging to the inside of his nostrils. His mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton, and the nausea he'd awoken with remained.

He hated the ocean. Hated even more to travel upon it. Normally his balance was perfect. It had to be in order to wield the weapons he did. But as the ship pitched to and fro, he felt ill at ease. A quick look around the tiny cabin also revealed he'd been bereft of his weapons, and he was stripped of all but his slim black leggings and the silver cuff on his left wrist. Why hadn't Danarius taken that? Did he recognize the symbol? Did he know what it meant? Did he know about his connection to Anders? He felt it now, the wave of anxiety, of worry. It comforted him and he touched it, feeling its warmth. Unsure as he was, he tried to convey his own feelings to Anders.

_I am alive. I'm on a ship. Danarius found me._

Though their link had never been able to transfer thoughts, Fenris kept these in his mind, repeating them like a cadence, hoping Anders understood somehow.

Deciding that he would rather face fate head on than wait for it to come find him, he tried the door to the cabin, and a thrill of anticipation danced in his stomach as the knob turned easily in his hand. He glanced out into the darkened hall before slipping out. The ceiling was low even for an elf of his stature and barely wide enough for him to pass through. At the end was a narrow set of stairs which he ascended to another level of the ship. It appeared to be abandoned, but surely it had a crew. Would Danarius hire a ship just for the two of them? He wouldn't put it past his old master. There would be no one to help him; the crew, whoever they were, would be well-paid for their silence.

A burst of concern echoed across the link, and he realized he was projecting his fear. He felt slightly embarrassed at having been caught dwelling on what might happen to him. Would Danarius torture him? Remove his memories somehow? Turn him back into a willing, compliant slave? He pushed the what-ifs from his mind and focused on the present. Though he had no sword and no armor, he still had his skills and his markings. And once they docked, he would use them to escape, to flee to the nearest city and seek sanctuary there. The Chantry would have to honor their sister Church, wouldn't they? He could obtain safe passage to Kirkwall, perhaps, then back to Denerim.

But Danarius was powerful and wealthy and the Chantry, despite hating the Imperium, never turned up their noses at money. More likely than offering him sanctuary, they would sell him back to Danarius who'd be only too glad to pay. A small price to regain his little wolf, he thought bitterly.

"There you are."

Fenris turned on his heel, feeling the pull of his markings, the stinging, burning pain as Danarius erected a quick shield in anticipation of an attack. The silence that Fenris threw wasn't fast enough and dissipated uselessly against the silvery shimmer that covered his master's skin. He backed up, away from Danarius who merely shook his head, looking amused.

"You think you can escape on ship? The sea is icy. And if you weren't consumed by the cold, surely you would drown. You never were such a strong swimmer."

Fenris remained quiet, poised in a half-crouch. He thought if he could activate his markings he would be able to overpower Danarius. Phase through his body and rip him apart from the inside. The feeling of finally being free would be overwhelming. Again, a pulse of concern flittered into his chest and he realized he was still projecting fear and anxiety. He hated the neediness he felt, but without Anders, without that link, surely there was no hope. Danarius had him cornered both figuratively and literally now he realized, his back against the wall.

"You'll catch your death," Danarius said gently, stripping his outer cloak and holding it out to him. "I do apologize for removing those awful Fereldan fashions. A slave of mine should never be seen in anything less than the finest silks. Alas, I neglected to bring any for this journey. Go on. Take it."

Like a wounded animal, Fenris remained silent, not reaching for the cloak despite the chill. He wouldn't allow Danarius to play with him like this. Danarius stepped closer and Fenris flinched, feeling the cold wooden planks against his bare back. The spicy scent he always associated with his master replaced the bitter stench of the potion as Danarius moved into his personal space. He was powerless, head turned to the side, eyes closed, breathing heavily as memories of shared intimacy flooded his mind. A warm, heavy cloak was wrapped around him, followed by two strong arms.

"No," he whispered, raising his hands, pressing his palms against Danarius's chest.

Danarius chuckled, a sound that Fenris felt against his fingertips. "'No,' pet? You aren't permitted to say 'no' to me. I am your master, and I will make you remember."

Fenris winced as Danarius seized his wrist, long wiry fingers closing over the warm silver cuff. He watched in horror, helpless as Danarius prised it off. Fenris braced himself for the abrupt cut off, the muted feeling he remembered the first time he removed the cuff back in Redcliffe.

It never came.

The swirl of emotions that weren't his own, the thrum of magical energy that was uniquely Anders remained in his heart and in his mind. It confused him. Perhaps it would fade over time? Had the jewelry been on so long to create a sort of residual effect? Was it just akin to muscle memory that he could still feel him? Like phantom pains, was this an illusion?

Danarius must've taken the shocked expression on his face as a victory and, hand still vice-like around Fenris's wrist, dragged him up to the deck of the ship. Fenris's eyes widened as he realized what was going to happen next.

"No!" he shouted, the night wind ripping the word from him and echoing in the dark.

With a laugh of sadistic glee, Danarius flung the silver over the rail. Fenris would have followed, throwing himself forward as if to chase it down, to retrieve it, his last link to his life as a free elf, had it not been for Danarius pulling him back. Fenris watched as the inky black sea swallowed the tiny dot of silver, and his chest ached. His knees buckled, and Danarius was there to hold him upright, his breath warm against Fenris's ear.

"That's right, pet. You remember who owns you, don't you?"

A burst of reassurance, of bravery and safety enveloped him. Fenris closed his eyes, remembering the nights he spent curled up with Anders by the fireside, how safe he felt with his mage. He wouldn't give in to this. He would fight Danarius's hold. And when Anders found him, when they were reunited, he would tell the mage exactly how he felt. How their pointless fight meant nothing, and how he missed being by his side. He would make Anders see how stupid he'd been for running, for saying their being together was a mistake. But until the time was right, he would need to play along. To make Danarius think that he was in charge again, though it sickened him to do so.

And as the whispered words, "Yes, Master," spilled from his lips, his stomach lurched and he pitched forward over the rail to vomit, unable to quell the nausea that overtook him.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders pulled his cloak tightly around himself, the bubble of anxiety in his stomach threatening to make him physically ill. It had been just over two days since Fenris had gone missing and by extension, himself as well. It was only a matter of time before the Church caught up with him and he knew he had to decide quickly where he needed to go. Tracking Fenris to Amaranthine had been easy, their connection strong and guiding. Asking at the docks about a tattooed elf turned up several leads, and the ship they'd boarded – Andraste's Ghost – was heading for Antiva City to collect supplies. It was the only one leaving the docks that day and no doubt was chosen by Danarius to put as much distance between Fenris and Ferelden as possible.

"I'm looking for passage to Antiva City," he told the dock master.

A large, burly man covered in furs, his gloved hands holding several shipping manifests, looked Anders up and down before scoffing. "Ain't no ships heading out for a while now. Last one left two days a'fore." He coughed, white puffs of breath escaping his lips accompanied by the foul smell of whatever tobacco he'd been smoking. He wiped his mouth, mustache bristling. "Got one going to Kirkwall in two weeks."

"I don't have that kind of time," Anders protested. "A ship going anywhere across the Waking Sea, then. Any city in the Free Marches, please."

If he could just get to the northern half of the continent, he would be able to find a horse or a carriage to take him to Antiva. Or by the Maker he would go on foot. Every minute he spent arguing with the dock master was another minute Fenris was further away from him. He felt him still, confused and scared, but resolute. And Anders wasn't going to let him down. He would find Fenris, he would rescue him from Danarius.

"Sorry, mate," the dock master said, though he didn't sound it. "Best try the smaller ports, or over in Highever. Lots of noblemen there with their private ships."

Highever. Cousland's hometown. It gave Anders an idea. If he could get to Vigil's Keep, he could entreat help. Surely the Warden wouldn't turn him down. Not after everything they'd been through together, with how close he'd grown with Fenris. It would take several hours to get back south, precious hours that Anders didn't have to spare. He thanked the dock master for his time and headed back into the city proper.

People milled about the streets, hurrying this way and that or leisurely moving from one merchant's stall to another. Children laughed as they chased a round hoop over the cobblestones, and two or three stray dogs begged for scraps of food. Anders saw all of it, yet none at all, his mind fixed on Fenris. Someone jostled him and apologized, and he ignored it, focusing on the fear in his stomach, the taste of bile in the back of his mouth. Fenris was scared and alone, heading back to a life of slavery if Anders didn't do something to stop it. He quickened his pace, making up his mind at once to travel to Vigil's Keep and ask Cousland for aid. He only hoped the man was still there.

Climbing the steps out of the busy market square, Anders didn't notice two figures at the top until one had grabbed him by the arm. Instinctively he jerked his arm from the grip, simultaneously casting a repulsion spell to launch his attacker away from him. Around them people stopped, gasping as they watched, backing away from what surely would be a fight. The rattling of chain metal sounded as guards came running.

"It's fine!" someone called, and Anders finally realized who'd tried to stop him.

"Bethany? Hawke?"

Hawke was picking himself up off the ground, victim of Anders' spell. He waved off the guards. "Church business. Sorry, sorry. We'll see ourselves out."

"Are you all right?" Bethany asked, brushing him off, turning to glare slightly at Anders.

Anders couldn't bring himself to feel guilty. He didn't have time for this. "What?"

"Don't say 'what' like you don't know why we're here," Hawke said. It was rare to see him without a grin on his face. Even deep into training, he always had time for a joke. There was no hint of a smile now, no twinkle in his eye as he addressed Anders. "You ran away."

"I didn't run away," Anders snapped, and started toward the city gates with them following quickly.

"What's going on, Anders?" Bethany urged. "Where's Fenris?"

Anders clenched his fists, trying to keep his anger in check. He needed to focus on staying calm, on sending soothing thoughts toward Fenris, to keep him hopeful. "Gone."

"He ran?" Hawke asked. "But why-"

"He didn't run!" Anders snapped. So much for staying calm. "His master came to collect him."

A sharp intake of breath from Hawke behind him. Anders hurried down the path toward the nearest farm. He needed a horse.

"Anders, wait!"

Anders turned as Bethany took his arm. "Wait for what?! For Danarius to drag Fenris all the way back to Tevinter? To make him a slave again? Or kill him? There's no _time_ , Bethany!"

"And what are you going to do, Anders?" Hawke asked, stepping up. "Single-handedly take on a Tevinter magister?"

"If that's what it takes!"

"And any soldiers he has with him? You think you'll do Fenris any good by getting yourself killed?"

Anders turned away, Hawke grabbing him roughly by the arm. Anders jerked from his grip once again and cast a force push spell, which Bethany blocked. A second later, Anders felt his mana drain from him. Shocked, he turned open-mouthed to look at Hawke.

"It's for your own-"

Before he could stop himself, Anders balled his fist and struck Hawke in the jaw, his knuckles cracking against bone.

"Anders!" Bethany shouted.

The punch staggered Hawke, but he'd taken harder blows from seasoned warriors his size and larger. In retrospect, the hit likely hurt Anders more than him, his knuckles bloody and likely broken. The pain was immaterial next to the anger he felt.

"You SILENCED me!"

"To stop you from doing anything stupid!" Hawke shot back, massaging his bruised jaw.

Bethany reached for Anders' hand. He pulled back. She reached once more, and annoyed but hurting, he relented, allowing her to heal him.

"That was stupid, Garrett," Bethany said gently. "And you shouldn't have hit him," she added to Anders. "But he's right. You can't save Fenris on your own. We'll go back to Denerim, speak to the lieutenant and get a company out to help you. If you leave now you'll be marked as a deserter and you'll likely have templars after you. Is that what you want? Is that going to help Fenris?"

Anders wanted to scream at them both. Didn't they understand the gravity of the situation? He took a few deep, calming breaths. "Fine. But if the lieutenant doesn't make this a priority, I'm going on my own."

"He will," Bethany promised.

Anders didn't answer, incensed at their lack of urgency, irritated and feeling betrayed at Hawke's actions. However, he let him lead the way out of the city to a pair of waiting horses and climbed on behind Bethany. Begrudgingly he took her around the waist and allowed them to take him back to Denerim, his mind fixed on his Crusader and how they were going to get him back from Danarius. Further, he wondered if Danarius was hurting him. Would he be able to feel it across their bond?

_Fenris. I swear. I'm coming for you,_ he thought, clinging slightly to Bethany as they rode. _Just hang on._


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris buried his face in the thin, ragged pillow, inhaling the scent of sweat and dirt and seawater. He desperately wished now that Danarius simply had taken his memories from him. To be spared the humiliation. But Danarius was not merciful, and he had his pride. He would take Fenris back, break him and make him a willing slave once again with careful conditioning, not magic. Fenris felt his master's fingernails digging into his hips, the bed shifting with his weight, with every thrust. Danarius was gentler than he'd ever been before, prick sliding slickly into Fenris and out again as he fucked him slowly.

Fenris wished for pain. For blood. This almost careful movement, the occasional petting of his backside or thigh, it was a mockery of love-making. He was a slave, he was to be used. But Danarius was purposefully trying to confuse him, to pay attention to his own body's needs and wants. When Danarius had used him in years past, it was about his own pleasure, never his slave's. Fenris received nothing, but now he shuddered as he felt his master's soft fingertips around his own cock, milking him in time with the carefully measured thrusts. He bit the pillow to keep himself quiet, his traitorous body wanting desperately to moan like a two copper whore, to thrust back wantonly against Danarius. But he wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"That's it, my pet," Danarius murmured against his ear, tongue flicking the lobe before kissing up to the tip. "Did the other mage do this for you? Did he take care of you the way I do?"

_No,_ Fenris thought, bringing to mind Anders, the way he scowled when Fenris rebutted a point, how pinched his lips would get during their arguments. But also the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The affection he gave, so freely and without thought of recompense. He remembered how he fought, the power behind each spell, how he defended Fenris against the slavers, and the comforting feeling of lying in the mage's arms at night. He would have given himself freely to Anders. Danarius had to take it.

He shuddered as he felt Danarius pull out, a hot splash of seed against the backs of his thighs that cooled quickly. A few more tugs on his own prick and he felt himself pushed over the edge, coming onto the dirty blanket that was the only bedding. Danarius moved away then, a rustling of cloth as he righted his robes. A cold, wet rag smacked against Fenris's bare leg, and he obediently started to clean himself off.

"When we reach Antiva City, we'll find passage to Qarinus. Your running off has set my plans back, but we're nearly at the end now. The world will change, and you'll be glad I've chosen to keep you at my side."

The door opened allowing a sliver of light from the hallway torch to creep in. Fenris heard Danarius's soft laugh and the door clicked shut, leaving him yet again in darkness. He scrubbed the blanket before tossing the rag into the corner basin and pulled his leggings off the floor to dress. The door, he knew, would be unlocked. But what was the point in leaving? There was nowhere for him to go. The Waking Sea was unforgiving, and he would surely drown before he got too far. And though death might be a necessary future, he needed to keep his mind about him for now.

Anders would be searching for him. The Church would not so easily dismiss an investment. Karl and Greagoir and even Dagna would make sure he was found. But how long that would take, he couldn't say. He would need to be patient. Shivering in the cold, dark cabin, he curled up on the lumpy mattress, wrapping the meager blanket around his shoulders and stared at his wrist, massaging it, trying to comfort himself. A pulse of affection flittered through his nerves, settling warmly in his breast, and he tried to return the feeling, hoping Anders understood.

-

Anders palmed his chest, frowning. Something was wrong. Fenris was alive, but the burst of despair he felt meant the elf was in considerable distress. Was Danarius beating him? Punishing him for escaping? He rolled over in the bed they'd made together in their castle room, the piles of blankets and mattresses and pillows on the floor. Ser Pounce-a-lot curled up in the corner, eyes closed but tail flicking idly. He knew something was wrong and had been rather restless since Anders returned to the castle. Hawke and Bethany were right; their lieutenant promised a company of men to search for Fenris, but it was delayed for the royal wedding that would take place in the morning.

Fenris was in the clutches of his former master, likely being tortured, and the nobles of Denerim were planning, of all things, a bloody wedding. He tossed and turned, unable to sleep, but knowing he would be forced into attending as a representative of the Church. He'd written his letters the second he returned to Denerim, informing Greagoir and Irving of Fenris's capture and sent them by the quickest post-boy he could find. It was worth the coin, and the hope that either the First Enchanter or the Crusader Commander would actually _do_ something kept his spirits… well, not high exactly, but higher than they otherwise would have been.

He conjured a spirit wisp and sat up, unable to sleep. Exhaustion took him earlier when he'd first returned and he'd gotten perhaps two or three hours of rest, but now his mind raced. He pulled over Fenris's pack, not sure what he was looking for or what he would find, but needing something to hold onto. He smiled at the books, the handful of crumpled parchment with big, blocky letters written upon them. Fenris's penmanship was improving daily. Anders was determined to see it through. He shifted aside several rolled up pairs of socks, a few trinkets, and stopped on a small pot. It didn't look like the usual stamina and elfroot potions Fenris tended to carry. Curious, he pulled it from the bag, waving at the wisp to lower itself so he could use the light. The lid unscrewed easily and peering in, he saw the grey ash.

"What in the Maker's name-" he muttered.

Then he realized.

Why would Fenris have a pot of Andraste's ashes? Did Cousland give them to him, or had Fenris taken some on his own? Frowning, he screwed the lid back on and tucked the pot into his robes. Just another question he would ask Fenris when they found him. He closed the pack and tossed it in the corner before taking up one of his own scrolls of parchment. Since he wasn't going to get any more sleep that night, he might as well set to improving his manifesto he'd been neglecting for so long.

_Fenris would hate this._

That comforting thought in mind, he started to write.


	4. Chapter 4

Denerim flew the Theirin flags the day of the royal wedding. Anders stood impassively near the back of the room with the rest of the Church's delegates. Hawke and Bethany, Hawke in his shiny silver Crusader armor, and Bethany in her official Church robes, flanked him, as if they were afraid he was going to use the wedding as a distraction to run yet again. But Anders was determined to be patient. After the wedding, he would lead a company of Church mages and their Crusaders north. In Amaranthine they'd requisition a ship and sail for Antiva. He wasn't sure what they would find, Fenris now nearly a week ahead of them, but he knew that Fenris yet lived.

_I will come for you._

He shifted irritably now, barely hearing the traditional wedding music, eyes sliding over the Orlesian nobles that filled one half of the grand hall, all wearing their masks with decorative paints and jewels and feathers, toward the Ferelden nobles on the other side, looking much less ornate but immeasurably more comfortable. Alistair was difficult to miss, nearly head and shoulders above the others, wearing a rather goofy smile that Anders would have found endearing had his mind not been elsewhere. On his arm, her face concealed by a gilded mask, was Empress Celene. Anders took note of the elegant, elaborate wedding gown that likely could have fed more than half of Denerim with its worth. He wondered what Fenris would have had to say about the extravagance of the ceremony, and it hurt his heart to think about it.

Two more people stood close to Celene: A chevalier that Anders understood to be the empress's champion, and an elf, holding the train of her gown, no doubt one of her handmaidens. Alistair likewise had someone behind him: Arl Eamon. He was much older-looking than Anders remembered seeing him, and wondered idly if he'd been told what transpired back in Redcliffe. Errant thoughts distracted him from the pressing need to find Fenris, and he tried to remain calm during the lengthy, dull ceremony. The Grand Cleric waxed on about the joining of the two nations, and it was nearly enough to put Anders to sleep. He suspected he would have done so, had he not been so anxious.

Beside him he felt Hawke shift, a plate gloved hand coming up to cover a yawn, and Bethany sighed. Anders rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to quell the headache that threatened to form. A movement in the rafters caught his eye, the shimmer of a shadow. Frowning, he stepped forward, shrugging off Bethany's hand. It happened in a blink; an arrow from out of nowhere pierced the crook of Alistair's arm. In an instant, the hall was filled with panicking nobles. Anders, at the back of the hall, was pushed and shoved as hundreds of people tried to figure out what was happening. The clang of metal against metal sounded above the shouting.

"Get to the king!" someone yelled, nearly in Anders' ear.

He flattened himself against the wall, trying to press past the crowd moving opposite. In the confusion he lost Hawke and Bethany, and managed to squeeze his way to the front. A man, or an elf judging from his size, and dressed in nondescript armor, was scaling the wall toward one of the high windows. Anders raised his staff and a bolt of lightning shot from the end, catching the assassin's boot, but doing little to stop his momentum. He was out of the window before Anders could throw another spell.

Someone behind him screamed, and he turned to see another similarly clad assassin with a dagger at Alistair's throat. Celene's chevalier was on the ground, a pool of crimson blood slowly growing larger beneath him. The empress herself was nowhere to be seen. Alistair, hands spread, was trying desperately to pull away from the bite of silver at his neck. Anders didn't hesitate; he flung his arm forward, a force push spell knocking both Alistair and the assassin backward off their feet. Alistair, dressed in heavy golden ceremonial armor, fell heavily atop the assassin. A crunch of bone and the cry of pain, and Anders rushed over to kick the knife from the man's hand.

Anders reached down and used a bit of magic to bolster his own strength to haul Alistair to his feet. Alistair, broken arrow protruding from an armpit, immediately drew his sword with his uninjured arm and held the tip at the assassin's throat.

"Is everyone okay?" Alistair asked over his shoulder toward Anders, not taking his eye off the man.

Two Denerim soldiers rushed forward to chain the assassin. The hall was half-empty now, nobles scattered through the palace while templars and Crusaders alike tried to calm everyone and keep order. Bits of torn fabric and trampled masks and feathers littered the stone. A shuffling behind him, and Anders turned to see the empress's handmaiden, a slender dagger in her hand.

 _No ordinary handmaiden,_ Anders thought, before turning to look at the seemingly dead chevalier at his feet. He looked at Alistair who reached up and wrenched the broken arrow from his shoulder with a quiet grunt.

"I'm fine, Anders," Alistair assured him. No doubt he was; Anders had seen him take harder hits on the battlefield. "…Is Ser Michel-"

"Is he?" came another voice.

Anders turned to see Empress Celene emerge from behind a stone pillar where she'd taken refuge. Though he couldn’t see her face, her voice wavered slightly. He knelt down, pulling Ser Michel's mask off, two fingers at his neck, searching for a pulse. It was there, faint and fluttering, and fading. His face was pale, drained of color, lips turning blue.

"Help me get this off," Anders said, reaching for the buckles of the armor.

"Your Majesty!" someone complained as Alistair knelt as well.

Together, they removed Ser Michel's armor. Anders ripped apart the white undershirt which was stained red with blood. Somehow the assassin managed to pierce his side, a deep wound that was already starting to fester. He frowned, a ball of blue light in his palm.

"Poison of some sort," he muttered, pressing the energy into the cut. His fingers burned almost immediately and he yelped, pulling back. Blood continued to flow.

"What do you need?" Alistair demanded.

"I've never seen this before," Anders said, frowning. He tried again, and again felt the searing pain. "Magebane, but it shouldn't act in such a way. I need water, cloth. Iodine. Elfroot."

The materials were brought to him quickly, he was vaguely aware of the people surrounding him, watching him to see if he could bring Ser Michel back from the brink of death. He cleaned the wound carefully, but still it festered, the skin around the cut turning black. The shallow rise and fall of Ser Michel's chest all but stopped. It was either a very potent poison, or dark magic imbued into the blade.

"I'm sorry. There's nothing-" Anders stopped mid-sentence, one hand cupping his pocket. He fished out the pot that contained the ashes and looked at it dubiously for a moment.

 _If there's a Maker, let Him be with us now,_ he thought, and opened the lid. Several pinches of the grey ash dissolved into the wound, absorbed by the blood, and he waited. The hall was silent. And slowly the wound began to close. The skin turned from black to purplish brown, to a faded yellow-green. Anders tried his magic once again, a strong healing spell to force the wound closed. He winced, anticipating the searing pain in his fingers, but it never came. The skin sewed together seamlessly, leaving behind only a smear of blood.

Ser Michel gasped and groaned in pain, and Anders held an elfroot potion to his lips, which he drank eagerly, eyes fluttering open. "Empress Celene," he managed.

"Bloody fool," Anders sighed, helping him sit up. "You were at the Maker's door and your first thought-"

"I am well," Celene replied, setting Ser Michel at ease. Her gaze fell on Anders, who felt distinctly uncomfortable looking at her eyes behind that mask. "You have saved my champion's life."

Anders dropped his eyes. "I am a Healer," he said quietly, modestly, before turning to tend to Alistair who, despite his protestations, was still bleeding. It gave him something to focus on beside the young monarch's cool stare.

"What do you think they wanted?" Anders asked, pulling Alistair away from the others briefly, under the guise of needing to look at his wound. Though he'd never been as close to the king as Cousland, fighting together to bring down the archdemon had given him leave to be more familiar with Alistair than many others.

"Hopefully we'll find out," Alistair said, arm raised as Anders inspected the wound. "The guards took him to the dungeon. If he wanted me dead, why not slit my throat right there? Or better yet, why not in my sleep? Why do this in front of all these people?"

"Are you sure it wasn't…" Anders trailed off, but his backwards glance at Celene betrayed his thoughts. He turned his concentration yet again on the wound.

Alistair frowned. "I don't appreciate the accusation. But… you're right. There are too many opportunities for Ferelden to fall. Hopefully the interrogation yields some- Ow!"

"Big baby," Anders said, flicking the now closed wound. He held up the arrow head as Alistair lowered his arm. "A souvenir."

"I'll put it with the rest of my pride," Alistair said, taking it from him. He frowned, examining it. "It's not Ferelden in make. Antivan, maybe?"

"Crows?" Anders guessed. "They're not usually so sloppy, are they?"

"If only Aedan hadn't been so eager to go south," Alistair breathed mournfully. "I'm sure Zevran could look into it for us." He slipped the arrowhead into a hidden pocket inside his armor. "They'll want to laud you for saving Ser Michel's life. A great big feast is what we all need after that!"

Anders frowned. "As much as I'd like to take you up on the offer, Your Majesty-"

Alistair's grin faded. "You're getting official."

"My Crusader was taken hostage-"

"What?!"

The exclamation drew stares from the remaining inhabitants of the room.

"We were to leave directly after the wedding to mount a search." Anders felt the relief flood through him as Alistair's expression changed to that of concern. He'd always known Alistair as a compassionate man, and it was nice to know the years and position hadn't changed him.

"What are you still doing here then? Maker's breath, man! Go! If I'd known, you would've been given leave already. Not that I have any say in what the Church does," he added.

Anders nodded, tight-lipped, and shook Alistair's hand before taking up his staff and leaving the hall. Though curious as to who would set an assassination attempt on Alistair, it was time to find Hawke and Bethany and gather their resources to find Fenris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been playing DAI for the last couple of days so I'm a bit behind. My deadline of December 31st is still on though. The story is finished for the most part. Lots of heavy editing to do and an epilogue to write up. Might be able to finish it before November ends!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with, guys. For those playing Inquisition, hope you're having a blast!


	5. Chapter 5

"Kirkwall."

The word was a question spoken as an incredulous statement. Anders gripped his staff, tempted to use it to curse Hawke to tiny pieces. But Bethany was there as well, along with the rest of their group: a dozen mages and their Crusaders in all. A formidable force to take on Danarius and whatever other ills would befall them on their journey north. They'd left from a port in Denerim on a war ship, not the most subtle way to travel, but the only vessel available at the moment and graciously gifted to them by King Alistair. What Anders hadn't been aware of was that their orders changed in the few short hours following the wedding.

"The lieutenant received word from Greagoir that there's some sort of uprising. The Church's entreated aid and we've got to go there first. It's on the way-"

"It's out of the way!" Anders snarled. "If you'd ever bother to study a bloody map, Hawke!"

Bethany slipped between them, shorter than both men, but able to push her brother back, taking his wrist in case he decided to hit Anders either physically or with a silence. "Anders, stop. We'll find Fenris. I promise you. Once we reach Kirkwall, we'll-"

But Anders didn't hear her. He stalked away from them, staff clacking angrily as he descended the steps below deck. The ship was designed to house hundreds of soldiers, and with only a skeleton crew now, the bowels were nearly empty. Had they not left port hours ago, and had he more seniority to throw orders around, he would have demanded they turn back. But Kirkwall was closer to Antiva City than Denerim. If he needed to, he would abandon the Church and set out on foot once they landed in the Free Marches. There was no telling how much time they had left after all.

"Damn it!"

He slammed the door to his cabin, looking around the small space. His pack lay on the bed next to Fenris's, and the greatsword he couldn't bear to leave behind leaned against the far wall. He regretted leaving Ser Pounce-a-lot behind, but knew his cat would be safer in the castle at Denerim for the time being. And with Alistair's promise to look after him, it was one less thing Anders had to worry about. But now he wished for some companionship, someone who understood his need for urgency, even if they couldn't speak. Didn't anyone else care about Fenris? Was he just another soldier lost?

A ripple of concern soothed his frustration and he felt a burning shame in his gut. He should have been paying more attention to his emotions, trying to ease Fenris's worries. Fenris was the one being held captive after all. Anders sank onto the mattress, head in his hands as he tried to calm down.

"Closer," he whispered. "I'm getting closer, Fenris. I swear to the Maker, I will find you." He focused, concentrating the emotions across their link.

Relief blossomed in his chest and he took several deep breaths to center himself. He repeated the words, injecting hope into his tone, trying to press that across their bond. Fenris was still alive. He could still feel him. And as long as those things remained true, there was still hope.

-

In the hours that followed, Anders shouted himself hoarse at the commanding lieutenant, threatened the man and his family, his goats and his cows, and in the end, all he'd gotten was a severe reprimand and a cell in the brig. He'd forgotten they were on a war galley, but at the very least, the bed was comfortable. Bethany brought him meals for the few days he remained locked up until he could 'cool off'. He held his tongue when they released him, playing the meek and meager mage. It likely fooled no one, but he was free to walk above deck once again. The days kept him busy, cleaning the ship or helping to work the galley. It provided a distraction for his worrying, his mind constantly moving to the task at hand rather than dwelling on what was happening to Fenris.

But during the night he had no such reprieve. Insomnia gripped him as his imagination provided the worst of what Fenris was enduring. Punishment, beatings, torture. Humiliation? Most certainly. The way Fenris spoke of Danarius, when he did, was without an iota of affection. There were no good memories of Tevinter. And now Fenris was alone again with him. Anders didn't imagine Fenris was easily subdued, the fiery temper flaring whenever he felt he'd been wronged. There was fight yet in him. And during the long and lonely nights, he felt their connection stronger than ever.

The thoughts rattling around his imagination drove him from bed. Leaning against the rail, looking up at the inky sky dotted with stars, Anders let out a breath. Though warmer north, the air was still wintery. He shivered against the wind, shoulders hunching a little as he heard the wooden deck creak behind him. A second later, a warm cloak came around him, and he felt Bethany beside him. She said nothing for a moment, her gloved fingers gripping the railing.

"You should be asleep."

He pursed his lips. She meant well, but he hadn't had a mother since the templars had stolen him from home, and he certainly didn't need one now.

"We'll reach Kirkwall soon," she tried again.

It was the wrong thing to say. He didn't give a fig about Kirkwall, whatever was going on there. It could wait. Fenris was the important thing. A good Crusader. A good person. Someone he promised to keep from the slavers, and he'd failed. He brought a fist down atop the railing, causing Bethany to jump, crackles of electricity sparking from the hit. His anger was boiling, just bubbling at the surface, and he fought hard to keep from unleashing it on her. After all, she didn't deserve his ire.

"I don't care about Kirkwall," he said evenly.

"My mother's in Kirkwall," Bethany replied coolly. "If there's a problem-"

He turned finally to look at her. "Then you can go to Kirkwall. I won't be staying."

Bethany frowned, eyes narrowing. "Don't you think I understand how upset you are, Anders? Fenris was my friend as well."

"He was more than that to me," Anders whispered, arms crossed. He unfolded them almost at once, reaching up to touch the earring that completed their link. Bethany didn't understand. How could she? She'd been with her brother since they were young, fought together side-by-side, never had to endure the loss of the other. But he, Anders, had been through this once before with Justice. It hurt so deeply, a wound that never healed.

He was stupid to let Fenris go. He was stupid to be so scared of starting something, perhaps afraid of being rejected once again. And now he might never get him back. _No!_ He tamped down viciously on that thought. He wouldn't endure another loss. Couldn't.

"I saw you walking away from the alienage," Anders started, careful not to sound accusatory. "That's where Fenris was taken. Did you speak with him?"

"He said that you'd gotten into a fight," she replied, one eyebrow arched.

Anders gritted his teeth, turning away from her. Was she accusing _him_ of being the cause of driving Fenris away? Was it true? No. Fenris was upset, and he had every right to be. But Danarius would have caught up with him regardless.

_But you could have been with him. To help him._

"Anything else?"

"No," Bethany said, carefully putting a hand on his forearm. "Anders, we'll find him. As soon as we settle things in Kirkwall. I'll make sure of it. I'll talk to the lieutenant."

Anders shook his head, feeling drowsy. His bond with Fenris was slightly dulled, almost as if Fenris had been drugged and was projecting. "He should have been made a priority. The Church doesn't care about him."

"Anders, don't say that."

"Leave me be, Bethany. Before I say something I'll really regret."

He felt her hesitate, but the hand on his arm slid away and she retreated below deck. The anger he felt slowly dissipated, replaced by anxiety. Tomorrow they would reach Kirkwall. With any luck, whatever plagued Kirkwall now would be settled quickly with their extra forces and they would be on the road again swiftly.

Trying to keep the spark of hope lit in his breast, Anders turned and followed Bethany's path, intent on getting as much rest as he could before they arrived.


	6. Chapter 6

The sting of the whip was familiar. Fenris felt the cold iron dig into his wrists, the chains rattling as he was pitched forward again by another lash. He remembered vaguely the last time he'd been whipped. It was so long ago that he'd learned his place, learned how to please his master. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Danarius now, sitting with his legs crossed, watching. Fenris had no idea who the man brandishing the whip was. A soldier? A sailor? Some gutter rat looking for coin? They'd reached Antiva City and there was no shortage of people looking for work in this town. If some impressive looking nobleman handed you a gold sovereign to whip an elf bloody, you'd jump at the chance.

But Fenris still hated him, whoever he was.

Ten lashes and the clink of coin. The door opening and shutting, and it was done. Just a simple business transaction to them while Fenris felt as if his back had been set on fire, his wrists bruised. The inn that Danarius chose was lavish, a large comfortable four-poster bed with silken sheets and a colorful canopy, plush carpet and expensive artwork on the wall. The chains and manacles were something Danarius himself brought, and it was all too easy to find a whip in this city, leather being one of the primary exports. Danarius removed the manacles, catching Fenris as he stumbled, slightly dizzy from the pain.

"You are mine," Danarius said, smoothing back Fenris's hair, damp with sweat. "If I wish to beat you, I will. If I wish you take you, I will. Do you understand?"

There was only one answer that was appropriate. 

"Yes, Master." The words tasted putrid on his tongue. His markings flared as the muscles in his back flexed involuntarily against the pain.

Danarius shoved him to his knees, ignoring his agony, hand twisting harshly in his hair. Fenris knew without asking, without order, what his master wanted. The clasps on his robes were slightly confusing; Fenris was far out of practice with them, but Danarius was oddly patient. A burning, gnawing feeling alighted in his stomach as he pulled his master's smallclothes down, wrapping a hand around his soft cock. He closed his eyes and began to stroke, adding lips and tongue when Danarius became erect. Memories flooded into the forefront of his mind with the salty taste of precome. He was back in Minrathous in his master's house, eagerly trying to please him. He'd felt disgusted with himself the first few times, the feeling quickly disappearing with the praise he'd been given for a job well done. From then onward, he wanted Danarius to stroke his hair and tell him what a good slave he was. It was a source of pride within him to receive compliments, no matter the task.

Muscle memory nearly tricked him into leaning toward the touch, the hand stroking his hair. He felt a prickly sensation just below the surface of his skin and he remembered who he was. No longer a slave. Instead, a captive, a prisoner. Unwilling, unwanting. Concern and reassurance across the bond he felt with Anders, with _his_ mage. His markings flared again and he heard Danarius chuckle. Fenris didn't care why Danarius found it amusing, just as long as he never found out that he could still feel Anders. His last, only link to hope and sanity. If he could hold onto it, he would survive.

Rivulets of sweat slid down his face, while on his back it was blood. He'd gotten used to the Ferelden cold, even if he found it uncomfortable. The balmy Antivan winter combined with fire that was built up much too high for his liking was made him feel ill. And when Danarius came down his throat, he had to choke back the sickness that threatened yet again to overtake him. Sweat-slicked, covered in blood, and panting, he was left to his own devices when Danarius straightened his robes and left the room, locking and magically warding the door behind him this time. Despite Fenris's unique appearance, there were too many opportunities for an elf to hide in this city.

He climbed stiffly to his feet, limping toward the next room where a porcelain tub awaited. The convenience of dwarven plumbing was appreciated now as he rinsed out his mouth, spitting, trying to rid himself of the taste of his master's seed. After, he washed carefully, applying elfroot to the wounds he could reach, and wished not for the first time on this journey, that Anders was with him. The extra linens in the wardrobe did not tear easily, but he fashioned bandages, winding them around his chest and back, tying them best he could.

He had no idea how long Danarius would be gone, and knew that searching the room for an escape was futile. Though hating to sit and wait to be rescued, he had little other choice, and picked a slim book from the pile on the nightstand. At the very least he could continue to commit one act of defiance, and sat gingerly on the plush carpet and began to slowly read.

-

Smoke rose from the city in the distance, and they were denied passage beyond the Twins – two enormous slave effigies that marked the entrance to Kirkwall's bay. Two large ships blocked the entrance, and Anders could just see in the distance the colors of the Templar Order.

"Why are Templars blocking the bay?" Hawke asked, one large plated hand against his brow to shield the glare of the mid-afternoon sun. "If they have to deal with an uprising, you would think that they'd want our help. They'd let us through, wouldn't they?"

"No idea," Anders replied. He would have been more interested at the strange protocol of the Chantry's army had he not been preoccupied. He could almost hear Justice in the back of his mind, chastising him for his immaturity.

_Fenris is fine. You can still feel him. He's scared right now, but you will save him. These people here, now, they need your help._

He clutched his staff, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. Even in his memory Justice was still pragmatic. It was irritating. Their ship turned slowly and made way down the sea, anchoring some miles away from the bay. In groups they descended in the small dinghies and rowed to shore, quiet murmurs of speculation rippling through the ranks. The pillar of smoke, black and ominous, seemed to be growing larger.

While still determined to get to Fenris as quickly as possible, Anders hoped they weren't too late to stop whatever was happening in the city.


	7. Chapter 7

Fenris knelt at his master's feet, once again with manacles around his wrists, a thin golden chain attaching them to a similarly golden collar which sat cold and confining around his throat. It had been years since Danarius felt it necessary to collar him, a practice he exercised to mock the customs of the Qunari. He felt the pull of the Fade around him, hating to traverse the dream-like spirit world. Demons whispered to him, offering him freedom from his master. He'd all but learned how to block them for good while he slept, but now? Danarius had bled a woman to death and performed a sleeping spell on him to bring him into the Fade. He could smell the faint coppery tang of her blood, knowing her body lay near his in the real world.

The reason for Danarius bringing him with was clear; he couldn't trust Fenris alone right now. It would be too easy to escape the inn on the outskirts of Antiva City and lose himself amongst the other elves. He might even be able to convince the Crows for help, promising a reward once he was returned to Church hands. Danarius wouldn't take that chance. That, and he wanted to show off. Fenris recognized the other magister standing across from Danarius, Faustinus Scaevola, a master of the Fade. He didn't brag in Danarius's presence though; likely he knew better. Faustinus might have had more control within the Fade, but Danarius's power and wealth were greater outside it.

"We were beginning to worry," Faustinus said unconvincingly.

Danarius scoffed. "Spare me the false pleasantries. I know what Desidario and Aurelian think. As you can see, it wasn't a waste of time." He placed a hand on Fenris's head and yanked the chain to his collar.

Fenris clamped his mouth shut, cutting off the surprised yelp that tried to escape as he moved with the chain. 

Faustinus glanced down at him, then back to Danarius. "There was news out of Denerim."

Fenris nearly looked up at the mention of Fereldan's capital city. He remembered himself in time, eyes trained on the ground, hands pressed against his thighs.

"The attempt failed, sadly," Faustinus continued.

"They need the boy alive," Danarius mused. "Otherwise it would be as simple as slitting his throat in his bed. No, it will take more than a handful of assassins to properly collect him." The chain rattled as he crossed his arms, thinking. "Once I arrive in Qarinus and have made sure that Fenris remains mine, I will set him loose once more. It should be simple enough for him to infiltrate the capital under the guise of being a Church Crusader and kidnap our quarry."

There was a noise of careful disbelief from Faustinus. "A Church Crusader?"

"Mm. It seems he thought to join up with them. Funny, isn't it, how things tend to fall into my favor?"

Fenris heard the smirk in his master's tone.

"Indeed! Shall I tell Desidario to expect you?" returned Faustinus eagerly.

"We should be there within the week, weather permitting. It's storming at the moment, so I think we'll enjoy this night in. Won't we, my pet?"

Fenris licked his lips, feeling ill. "Yes, Master."

"It seems he's remembered himself already," Faustinus offered.

"That remains to be seen," Danarius said, an edge of irritation in his tone. "Tell them they can pursue another attempt if they wish, or they can wait for it to be done properly. It bothers me not. We have enough time, after all."

"Do you believe it will work, even without the Ashes?"

Danarius hissed, as if Faustinus had suddenly revealed too much. Fenris chanced a quick glance upward. Faustinus's violet eyes were wide with upset, while Danarius looked livid. He lowered his head before either could notice he'd been looking. Obviously, whatever they were talking about had to do with the acquisition of the Ashes of Andraste. After all, how many other 'ashes' could they have been discussing? With everything that Vovanis had told them, and the wraith-like revenant that was left behind, it seemed the magisters knew something that the Church and the Grey Wardens did not. Was this the 'threat worse than darkspawn' Vovanis had spoken of? How many men had they sent to Haven to die in hopes of getting the urn? And what did they plan to do with it? Did they know that Cousland now held it? Was he in trouble?

Suddenly, the need to get back to Anders was even more pressing. He feared for his own life being back with Danarius, but he had a greater purpose now. Lives that were in potential danger from these men and whatever they were scheming. And someone in Denerim whom they'd already tried to kidnap was in the greatest danger of all. His first thoughts were on Anders, but that was preposterous. There was nothing extraordinary about him, was there? He allowed himself the barest of smirks, thinking about what Anders would have to say about that thought. No, he reasoned, it was likely someone of import. Arl Eamon, another nobleman, or the king, perhaps. He would have to hope that Faustinus and Danarius met again in the Fade during the journey to Qarinus, or try to eavesdrop somehow once they reached the city.

"All we need now is the boy's blood. If the line is intact as we expect, it will work," Danarius confirmed. "If he isn't who we believe him to be… Well. There's time yet to find another. It's not as if there aren't other bastard spawn, considering."

_King Alistair._ That confirmed it for Fenris, who'd listened to Cousland and Anders speak about Alistair. He was the bastard son of the former king of Ferelden. But why would they need Theirin blood? If Anders was here, they might be able to talk, to discuss the possibilities. But he was on his own for now. He needed to stay alive and keep his mind. The other Crusaders would need this information to keep the king safe and to stop whatever plot was unfolding.

"If there is nothing else…" Danarius trailed off.

"We'll be expecting you within the week," Faustinus said with a slight bow. "I'll have Desidario prepare for your arrival."

"See that he does."

The figure of Faustinus shimmered out of existence, and Fenris felt himself falling as well, though he remained kneeling. The ground beneath him shifted and he woke abruptly as he found himself lying on carpet, not dirt. He stayed still while Danarius summoned a desire demon, who easily lifted the body of the dead woman and disappeared. The chain rattled when Danarius pulled on it, and Fenris followed his lead into the bed.

"Now," Danarius said, removing his robe, "let's see to your markings. It appears that having gone so long without proper maintenance, they might be causing you more pain than usual. And I need you in top shape once we reach Qarinus. Come." He sat on the bed and patted his thigh.

Fenris crawled forward on the bed, wincing as strong fingertips pressed into his back. He'd forgotten the hurt that accompanied the spellwork keeping his markings fresh. Danarius quietly slid a pillow into his grasp.

"We don't want your screams alerting the innkeeper, do we now?"

"No, Master," Fenris said, burying his face into the soft downy pillow.

And as Danarius continued the agonizing ritual, Fenris tried desperately to shield his emotions from Anders, not wanting his mage to know the amount of pain he was about to endure.


	8. Chapter 8

A column of grey smoke spiraled above the city, the rough winds blowing the ash toward them. Combined with the rocky beach, it made for difficult passage toward Kirkwall, their hoods pulled low to guard against the stinging caused by the fire. A few hundred yards before the city gate they were flagged by a company of templars. Anders tensed, unable to help the conditioned response that years of being part of the Chantry’s Circle had impressed upon him. With a sickening feeling in his stomach, he realized that he recognized the templar in charge. Wearing the armor of Knight-Captain now, Cullen stood at the head of the group. Behind them, Anders saw Church mages with their Crusaders, and at least a dozen Chantry mages.

"What's this about?" Hawke asked, coughing through the haze.

Cullen's mouth was set in a thin line, gesturing up at the city. "Knight-Commander Meredith. She's under a spell of some sort we think. She went positively mad and ordered the Right of Annulment. Seeing demons everywhere. After she ordered an attack on the Church, claiming blasphemy, well… some of the templars… we didn't agree with it."

_Fancy that,_ Anders thought bitterly.

"I tried to force her to stand down, but she still has enough templars on her side to start a civil war," Cullen continued. "We took the mages out of the city once the march on the Church began."

"And the Church mages? And their Crusaders?" Bethany asked, stepping forward, clutching her staff.

Anders frowned, thinking of Bethany and Hawke's mother, possibly caught behind the lines of what was now the enemy.

"Under siege," Cullen confirmed. "Any nobles that stand up against her are arrested. The viscount is currently in one of his own holding cells. The Grand Cleric's gone missing. It's complete madness."

"What do you plan on doing about it?" Hawke demanded, gauntlets flexing.

"We're waiting until nightfall and then we're going to infiltrate the city under cover of darkness. There aren't enough of us to take on Meredith and those who stayed with her. Even with your company. We sent missives out to Orlais and Antiva, but you were the only responders thus far."

Anders stepped away from the group, settling against a large rock. He vigorously rubbed his forehead, taking several calming breaths. Stuck here for a few hours while the templars decided what to do. But what other options were there? Charging in head on would likely result in more death. Subduing the Knight-Commander was the best course of action. He knew it was his responsibility to assist where he could, that as a healer, he would be needed.

_Fenris, forgive me. Just a bit longer._

He rejoined the group as Cullen was explaining the plan of attack.

"Most of her forces have fortified in the Chantry," Cullen said, kneeling in the sand, drawing a crude map of the city. "We'll enter through the sewers in Darktown and make our way up to Hightown. We believe most of the Church's Crusaders and mages are holed up in their Circle here-" He drew an X in the sand a few blocks from the rudimentary Chantry. "They're likely surrounded by templars, not wanting to chance an attack."

"And where are the rest of the Chantry's mages?" Anders demanded.

Cullen looked up, eyes narrowing as he recognized Anders. "The ones that weren't able to come with us are still in the Gallows… or dead. I saw the First Enchanter fall as he tried to fight the Knight-Commander… foolish."

Anders felt his temper flare. "So it's foolish to want to fight for your freedom? Sounds like templar logic."

Bethany put a hand on Anders' arm and pushed him back away from the group before Cullen could respond. "It's not the time for that," she chastised. "We need to worry about the survivors now."

Anders pulled away from her, scowling. "How many mages are dead now at templar hands? And he insults their First Enchanter."

"Going against a mad Knight-Commander _is_ foolish. Especially with a company of templars backing her! He should have surrendered-"

"And be subjected to the Right of Annulment and killed anyway! Or worse, made Tranquil!" Anders was shouting now, drawing stares from the others. He saw Hawke break off from his conversation and approach. "I'm going to help my brothers, but don't expect me to extend courtesy to these templars beyond what I've been given."

"Bethany. Go ask Cullen about Mother," Hawke said, his tone implying there would be no argument.

She frowned, unused to having her brother speak to her in such a way, but she went without another word. Hawke took Anders by the arm roughly, dragging him further down the coast, away from the others.

"I don't need to be treated like a child!" Anders snapped.

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Hawke said, glancing back at the group, some of whom were still staring at Anders, surprised at his outburst. "But the templars need our support at the moment. And that means keeping calm. We'll have to work together to save those that are still alive. Preaching equality here and now will get nothing done, it'll just slow us down. And the longer this takes, the longer it'll take to get to Fenris."

Anders closed his mouth tightly, gritting his teeth. Hawke was using Fenris as a bargaining chip in a way. And damn it, it was working. There would be time to discuss the repercussions of the Knight-Commander's actions afterward. There were still mages in the city that needed their help, and he would have to cooperate with the templars to see them safe. And after that, they would save Fenris.

"Fine. I'll keep my mouth shut."

"That's all I'm asking," Hawke said. "I'm not asking you to agree with what they believe or convert back to the Chantry." He was speaking quietly now, gently. It reminded Anders horribly of Justice.

And what _would_ Justice say if he were here? Patience. Understanding. Do your duty. Inciting a mob, angering the mages of the Chantry, using this as an excuse to have them convert to the Church, it would be a cheap and dirty move. Even so, it was tempting. But now wasn't the time. He would rescue Fenris and tell Irving that they deserved a nice, long break. During which he'd convince Fenris to come on a pilgrimage with him to the chantries around Thedas, to coax other mages to join the Church and push for further freedom within the Church itself.

Thinking about what Fenris would say about _that_ forced a tight-lipped smirk. Hawke must've taken it as an improvement to his mood, as he clapped Anders on the shoulder and brought him back to the fold where Cullen was going over the plan once more. Restless, Anders joined the Chantry mages to speak with them quietly.

After all, there was no harm in just talking during the few hours until nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuck at work tonight and it's super slow, so you guys might be getting quite a few updates tonight! :)


	9. Chapter 9

The winding streets of Kirkwall were confusing at best during the daytime. At night they were positively labyrinthine. The Undercity and Lowtown were cut from the quarry, a horrible tan brick color, with doors all the same blood red iron. Their paltry group had been split further into threes and fours, and Anders found himself with two Kirkwall templars and a Chantry mage. The boy – for he couldn't have been more than eighteen – was Rivaini, his Chantry robes covering all but his face and shaking hands. He'd introduced himself as Alain. Anders listened as he explained he'd been there when the First Enchanter challenged Meredith, just barely making it out of the Gallows with his life. He could have run, the Wounded Coast providing several caves and old slaver dens that were perfect for hiding. Anders would have, had it been him. But, he reasoned, Alain looked like a properly cowed Circle mage. It angered him to see it, and again promised himself once they were out of this that he would demand that Irving let _him_ speak at the Chantry's Circles in future. They would have twice the amount of converts.

The lead templar whose name Anders didn't bother asking for stopped at the mouth of the street. It seemed that the templars who remained loyal to Meredith were avoiding Lowtown for now, which was eerily devoid of citizens. Hopefully, Anders thought, that meant they were all locked inside their homes and not dead and floating in the bay. The nobles might have had the courtesy of being imprisoned, but he doubted that Meredith would care a whit about the wellbeing of the paupers of the city.

They moved on, swords and staves drawn, carefully creeping up steps that faded from tan to grey, the rock giving way to more expensive looking and sturdier carved stone. The creatively named Hightown was empty as well, the path they took bringing them through an empty market square. The templars stopped short, causing Anders to stutter in his step, Alain banging into him with a quiet _oof_.

"Shh!" one of the templars hissed.

Anders was about to retort that it wasn't his fault they decided to halt without warning, but held his tongue as two more templars – ones that weren't on their side – moved out from behind a pillar. They were speaking in hushed tones words that Anders couldn't hear. He gripped his staff, edging between the two plate-clad men in his party, and took careful aim. A burst of purplish-white spears erupted from the tip, catching them unaware, and they fell to the ground like sacks of stone. He received a pat on the shoulder for his trouble and followed them further into the city, resisting the urge to give the stunned templars a good kick to the head as they hurried past.

"The Viscount's Keep is just up ahead," whispered one of the templars with them.

Across the square, they saw several figures move through the shadows, and Anders had to grab Alain's staff to keep him from casting; Crusaders. He noted the uniforms – Kirkwall Crusaders, not Ferelden.

"They must have managed to escape the Church," Anders whispered.

"Or they weren't there in the first place," one of the templars replied. "Maybe hid in the city when it fell. The Church is all but barricaded, Meredith's templars are everywhere. They can't get in, and we heard they were going to starve them out."

A blast of light from across the square cut the conversation short. A fight broke out, the Crusaders attacking a group that Anders realized with a sinking feeling, was part of their own infiltration party. Suddenly and perhaps foolishly, Anders raced forward, a silver shimmering shield around him as he dashed into the fray.

"Stop! We're friendly!"

The shouts and blasts of magic alerted yet another group, however, and soon the square was swarming with templars. In the confusion, Anders lost sight of his own group, but saw the uniforms of Fereldan mages and Crusaders start to converge. It was impossible to tell which templar was on what side, the clashing of blades ringing through the moonless night. He fell back, concentrating on what he was best at, support and healing. It was simpler to pick out his own and though his feelings against the Chantry were strong, watching templars fall and not knowing if they were friend or foe was sickening.

In the midst of the battle he saw Hawke, watched as he raised his shield in time to catch the blow of a templar's mace, heard the sharp clang of metal on metal, and saw Hawke fall, his right leg giving way, covered in blood. Bethany skidded to a halt next to her brother, raising her staff and catching the same mace as the templar struck again. But the wood, enchanted though it was, was no match for the silverite weapon. It cracked and splintered and the momentum carried the strike through to Bethany's leather-bound chest. Anders saw her fall almost as if in slow motion; he ran, but his legs were refusing to work, dreamlike and sluggish.

He threw a violent force push at the templar, the blast taking him ten feet across the square, crashing into one of his fellow soldiers, and they crumpled to the ground. Hawke, his leg bent at a very unnatural angle, had thrown his gauntlets off and was clutching Bethany's face in his hands.

"Bethy?" he breathed desperately. "Bethy, open your eyes!"

Anders knelt down, barely hearing the fight around them that seemed to be dying down, or perhaps it was his own blood rushing in his ears that suffocated the sound. He watched Bethany's eyes flutter open, a slight smile quirking the corners of her lips, which were red with blood. Anders withdrew a small knife and cut away the leather armor, then the cloth robe, peeling back the layers that were soaked with blood. Her chest was caved in, a bit of greyish white bone visible amongst the scarlet. Immediately he focused his mana, palms filling with blue energy that he pressed against the wound.

"Garrett," she whispered, trying to lift her hand.

Hawke took it, pressing the back of it to his lips. "Don't talk. Anders is going to fix you. You're going to be just fine."

"Tell Mother-"

"Shut up," Hawke croaked, and Anders realized he was crying.

He redoubled his efforts, but realized there was little he could do. Her ribs were crushed, caved in, likely a punctured lung. Digging frantically in his robes he thought of his bag containing Andraste's Ashes, back on the war galley along with Fenris's sword. He'd been a fool to leave them behind. Instead, he pulled out an elfroot potion and tipped it into her mouth, Hawke lifting her head to help her swallow. It would at least ease the pain, though would do little else at this point.

"Fix her," Hawke demanded, looking at Anders, his deep green eyes glassy behind his tears.

"Garrett, tell Mother I'm sorry," Bethany managed, coughing, spatters of blood leaving her lips. "And Carver. Tell him. It's not your fault. Garrett."

Her eyes closed, the shallow rise and fall of her chest coming to a slow and final halt. Anders watched as her fingers slipped from Hawke's hand, falling to her side, lifeless.

"Bethany?" Hawke whispered. "Bethany, open your eyes. Open… Anders! Do something!"

"…I'm sorry, Hawke," Anders said, in a voice that didn't sound at all like his own. "I'm sorry."


	10. Chapter 10

Anders wasn't a stranger to grief, and the loss of Bethany cut sharp and deep. There were many things he wanted to say to her, unfinished conversations. She was someone he felt comfortable talking to, that even if she didn't agree with him, she would listen to him. Empathetic, compassionate to a fault, she was a sweet girl who deserved more than what life gave her. He wanted to apologize to her, for all the arguments they'd had in the end, but mostly for not being able to save her. Guilt wracked his body, and he left the room while the others tended to the dead, sorting out the resulting mayhem from the battle. 

They'd won, but at what cost? The Knight-Commander was dead, driven mad by some spell or possession. Blood magic, perhaps? Anders didn't know. He didn't ask. Mages would likely be blamed. They were the easy scapegoat. If he wasn't feeling a thousand other emotions, he would have found room for justified anger. As it was, right now he was simply numb, unable to take any more of it. His legs gave way and he slumped against a wall, barely registering the hallway he'd found himself in. People hurried back and forth, one or two stopping to ask if he was alright. He waved them on. Others needed help more than he did. And what would they have done for him? It wasn't a physical wound that ailed him, after all.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, he pressed his dirty palms against his eyes until colors streaked his vision and the beginnings of a headache formed at the front of his mind. He tried to sigh and ended up sobbing, his breath hitching and the tears coming freely before he could stop. Pillowing his face in his folded arms, he cried for some time. For the loss of Bethany, of Fenris, of Justice. For all the mages who yet suffered under the Chantry's thumb, for the persecution of his people that would surely occur once this mess was sorted out.

He wasn't a soldier. He was a healer. He'd patched up more people than he could remember, saved countless lives. And yet every one of his successes couldn't equal out the losses. He was tired. He wanted a hot meal and a warm bath. He wanted to go home. But mostly, he wanted Fenris. Concern swirled in his breast, and he could almost feel his Crusader behind him, holding him.

"I'm all right," he said, his words muffled in his sleeve. Hearing footsteps he sniffed and wiped his eyes quickly, not wanting to share his grief with anyone right now.

Though he hadn't seen her in years, Leandra Hawke was unmistakable. Her hair might have gone grey, but her eyes were as bright and sharp as ever, and despite her pain, she held herself upright. Anders scrambled to his feet, feeling it would be disrespectful to remain on the floor in front of her.

"Mrs. Hawke."

"Anders," she said gently.

They clasped hands and somehow ended up in an embrace. Though he'd never dwelled on it overmuch in the past, Anders always felt a tinge of jealousy whenever one of the Hawke siblings mentioned their mother. He'd known his own so briefly. While twelve years was a substantial amount of time, it wasn't enough for the young boy who'd been ripped from her arms and thrown in a cart, wrists bound. He breathed in, feeling like that small boy once more, though he was at least a head taller than Leandra.

"No matter what Garrett says," she said, continuing in her same gentle tone, "I know you did what you could to save her."

"Is he…" Anders started, not sure what he wanted to ask. Hawke would blame him. He'd be angry, furious. And while Anders knew deep down it wasn't his fault, he would accept the blame.

Leandra sighed. "He'll be fine. He… we all need time. Let me worry about him. But I have a favor to ask."

"Anything," Anders said at once, the coil of guilt in his breast growing despite her comforting words.

She removed a rolled parchment from her cloak pocket and handed it to him. "Get this to Carver. He needs to be here in Kirkwall. If his commander will allow it, a permanent reassignment."

Anders understood. She wanted to keep her remaining children close. And Carver? Maker, he hadn't even thought about Carver or how he would feel. He took the parchment numbly, feeling it crinkle in his grip. "I'll make sure he gets it."

Leandra leaned up and kissed his cheek before patting him on the shoulder. Nothing more was said, and he watched her disappear around the corner. Frowning, he gathered his things and cleared the mission with his lieutenant, who gave him leave easily, presenting him with another missive for Irving and Greagoir, detailing the battle. Anders was halfway to the docks, pack over his shoulder, parchments tucked in his pocket when he stopped in his tracks.

"Fenris."

He couldn't return to Ferelden. Another week's journey south across the Waking Sea and to the Church's holdfast. And then waiting for orders there while Fenris was taken further and further away from him. He felt responsible for Bethany's death, yes, but what would he feel if Fenris was killed while he was playing errand-boy for the Church? On the other hand, he'd given Leandra his word.

A cold breeze tugged at his clothing and hair, paper wrappings and other litter skittering over the tan stone as he stood in the middle of the lane, debating. He lifted a hand to his breast, feeling the rolls of parchment tucked away. Suddenly, as if the movement had made up his mind for him, he turned on his heel and started back up the steps to Lowtown, wrenching open the door of the first tavern he saw. The danger passed now, the denizens of Lowtown had returned to their drink, none of whom gave him a second glance until he walked up to the bar.

Taking a gold sovereign from his pocket, he rapped it loudly on the counter. "Ten gold to any ship's captain who can take a letter to the Bannorn in Fereleden."

It was silent for a moment, heads turning to look him over, taking in his staff, his robes, his Church insignia. One by one they all turned back, the hum of conversation starting up again. He scowled, wondering if he should in fact head down to the docks to see if he could get a message over the Waking Sea that way when a voice called out to him.

"Make it twelve and you got yourself a deal, sweetheart."

He looked up. A Rivaini woman drained her tankard and sauntered toward him, hips swaying evocatively. If Anders had been in a different mindset, another place, another time, he would have been quickly taken in by the easy, seductive way she moved. She held out her fingerless glove-clad hand, and he dropped the coin into her palm before digging his purse out of his robes. Eleven more coins followed.

"And the message?" she asked, counting the coins before dropping them into her own purse which disappeared down her cleavage.

"These must both go to Commander Greagoir of the Church of Andraste," he said, handing her both scrolls. "This one specifically to a man named Carver Hawke."

She took them both and tucked them in another hidden pocket before giving him a cheeky wink. "I was on my way to Amaranthine. I'll make a detour."

"Please," he entreated. "Just as quickly as you can. And… if you can tell Greagoir one more thing."

"Just the one?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Tell him… that I've gone to find my Crusader. My name is Anders."

She looked him up and down, the amused expression fading slowly. "All right then."

He offered a tight-lipped, mirthless smile and left quickly before his nerve failed him. This would be the second time since Fenris disappeared that he was not strictly following orders. The probability of getting kicked out of the Church was great, and it almost seemed like the Chantry's Circle was the only thing in his future. But he didn't care. He would accept the apostate brand and stay on the run. Just as long as Fenris was safe.


	11. Chapter 11

It hadn't taken much to retrieve both packs and Fenris's sword from the almost-abandoned ship. No one questioned his movements, and Anders hoped he managed to put enough ground between himself and Kirkwall before anyone learned of his true destination. He paid for a horse in Starkhaven, as awkward as it was for him to ride, it was much faster, and he exchanged for a fresh one some miles north. The geography was vastly different in the Free Marches than it was in Ferelden. Warmer, no snow, but also more industrialized, every town and city he passed more populated and bustling. It made it easier to find his way, following the pull of his link he felt with Fenris, which somehow felt renewed and stronger.

It puzzled him in a way as he rode and hiked forests and hills. Surely Danarius would have removed the cuff? There was no Church in Tevinter, but their organization was well-known through Thedas even though they weren't spread as far or as wide as the Chantry's Circles. The symbol was everywhere in the Free Marches which were close enough to Tevinter, and the magisters would likely have been pleased to hear about the steps taken toward mage freedom, wouldn't they? Danarius would know that Fenris had joined the Church, and while he might not have known the exact magical powers of the cuff, he would have recognized the symbol. Or maybe he let Fenris keep it out of sentimentality. Though Anders doubted he was so merciful.

He lost track of the days and nights, sleeping only when he was at the brink of passing out, and even then only for a few hours at a time. Hard bread purchased in every town he passed and water collected from streams was his only sustenance. He had no time or patience for proper meals, promising himself a feast once Fenris was with him and safe.

_How are you going to fight a Tevinter magister on your own?_

His thoughts had the annoying habit of sounding like Justice. They also had the annoying habit of being extremely practical. Hawke once asked him the same thing, and he frowned thinking about that argument now. He had confidence in his own abilities, but what he knew of Tevinter, Danarius would be extremely powerful, able to control hordes of shades and even demons. And if he had a company of soldiers with him, there would be no contest. And the outcome of that fight?

Death.

There was a slim chance that Danarius would take him as a slave. Fenris mentioned that magisters in Tevinter didn't hesitate to collar their own. Would he be imprisoned? Made to do the bidding of another mage? Anders felt sick at the prospect. It wasn't right, locking someone away, forcing them into servitude. The magisters in Tevinter were no better than the Chantry's templars. No, he would fight Danarius or die trying to free Fenris. The weight of the sword on his back felt heavy compared to his staff. Would Fenris be able to fight as well? Would Danarius already have him in his clutches? Brainwash him? Use blood magic to control him?

Would he be made to fight Fenris?

Anders swallowed thickly at the thought. He ducked a tree branch, urging his horse to gallop faster, pushing the poor beast to its limits. The next town was a few miles off according to the people in the last village he'd been through. He would change horses there and then start through the mountains, a passage known as the Hundred Pillars. He only hoped they weren't as perilous as they sounded.

-

Fenris lay curled up in the back of the carriage, his head pillowed on Danarius's thigh. He was feverish and sweating, a think blanket around his shaking shoulders. Another elf knelt on the carriage floor, one hand against the door to keep her balance. Fenris didn't recognize her. A slave from Danarius's house? A servant he hired in Antiva City? He couldn't remember.

"Sip." Danarius's voice sounded hollow and far away, and despite everything, Fenris found it a regrettable source of comfort.

The elf held a cup to Fenris's lips, the angle making it hard to drink the sweetened tea. He sipped sloppily, dripping a bit from the corner of his mouth. Danarius swiped a finger against his lips and waved the other elf off. She slunk back to the bench opposite, clutching the cup between dainty hands.

"I was right in thinking your markings needed care," Danarius said, brushing hair from his damp forehead. "Luckily you seem to be taking to the injection of lyrium much better this time than last. We'll try another dose in Qarinus, though we'll have to be careful. After all, we don't want you to lose the memories of your last few weeks on the run just yet."

Fenris gritted his teeth as the carriage lurched and rumbled. The pain was gone, faded in the first ten hours or so after Danarius performed the ritual to ensure the lyrium brands hadn't broken down. He doubted the validity of the ritual, doubted that the markings would poison him in the way his master said they would. After all, in the years he'd been free, they hadn't hurt more than usual, nor made him feel sick. Likely it was just another way for Danarius to control him. To make him think he needed him, to make him dependent. He allowed the gentle touches, the stroking of his hair, and even clung to Danarius's leg, pressing his cheek firmly against his thigh.

He would lull Danarius into a false sense of security, letting him think that his precious wolf was becoming a tame pup once more. But Fenris knew that if they crossed the city limits into Qarinus, there was little hope of rescue. The Church might have jurisdiction in the Free Marches and even Antiva. It would be difficult but not impossible for a company of Crusaders and mages to extricate him from an outlying Tevinter town. But a port city like Qarinus, with many of Danarius's allies and soldiers for hire? It would be nigh impossible.

He felt Anders closing in on them, some miles behind though he couldn't be sure in his fever-induced delirium. When he slept, or drifted into unconsciousness, he thought he saw his mage, the stupid cocky grin he'd once been so frustrated with now putting him at ease. He spoke to him, his mutterings half-intelligible as Danarius bathed him nightly and redressed him in the mornings.

"We should reach Marothius relatively soon. We'll have a rest there, I think, before we move on. At least until your fever breaks."

Fenris nodded, barely understanding what Danarius was saying. He shivered and Danarius tucked the blanket carefully around him. Lips dry once more, he tried to reply, though his fevered brain was already taking him back to unconsciousness.


	12. Chapter 12

Marothius was a quiet town by night, surrounded largely by farmland to the west and mountains to the east. Anders gave his horse to a farmer at dusk, trying to explain that he didn't want any compensation for it, and walked away with a sack of coins for his trouble. Traveling up through the Free Marches and on the outskirts of Antiva hadn't been an issue, most innkeepers speaking the trade tongue. As he passed through the mountain range that served as the border between the Imperium and Antiva, it became apparent to him that communication would become more difficult, even impossible. He doubted the inhabitants of Tevinter spoke Ander or Orlesian, at least in the eastern part of the country.

That didn't deter him from his goal. He felt Fenris, their connection stronger than ever now, and he knew he was close. They must have stopped in the town for the night and Anders quietly thanked the Maker. As he traversed the smooth stone streets, keeping his hood up, he followed his instincts. A few tramps looked as if they wished to approach him, but their eyes slid to the sword and staff on his back and thought better of it. Perhaps they knew to steer away from mages, or perhaps he just looked intimidating to them.

He'd shed his Church robes early on, opting for a pair of simple brown pants and a cream colored tunic. His cloak was warm and nondescript, the only article of clothing he kept. It would be too easy to identify a Church mage in uniform, and if Danarius was smart, he would be careful about inquiring if anyone had seen travelers dressed in the Church's colors. But what he wouldn't be expecting, Anders hoped, was one lone mage.

He stopped abruptly, looking up. A hundred feet away was the town square, a large statue of a man in the center posed in such a way that Anders assumed he must be some sort of politician. Iron fences surrounded the buildings made of dwarven-cut stone, all of them very tall and official-looking. A lone sign hung above one of the doors, the only building that still had lights burning in the windows. He felt Fenris beyond those walls and reached out with concern and reassurance.

Anders felt the returning emotions a few seconds later, warm and comforting, settling in his own breast. Hopeful and anxious. With the knowledge that Fenris was safe, Anders approached cautiously, keeping his hood up, clutching it between his thumb and forefinger as he crossed the square and carefully pushed inside. He would take a room and Maker-willing, slit Danarius's throat in the night.

_No. You would be found._

If he'd missed his mark, or if Danarius was somehow expecting an attack, it could cause problems, a raised alarm and an inquiry of his identity and why he'd murdered a magister. Weeks of frustration, desperation and searching led him here, in the very building where Fenris was, and he was without a plan.

_Foolish._

A bard in the corner struck up a tune on his lute and sung softly in Tevene. Anders paused a moment, reminded of a cold night long ago in Redcliffe, listening to Fenris sing in the very same language. Would he get to hear his voice again? Shaking his head, he tore himself away and slunk to the bar, speaking in broken Ander to the bartender.

"None of that," the bartender replied in trade tongue. "We don't speak that here."

"Do you have a room?" Anders asked quietly, inflecting his old accent into his speech. This would hopefully throw suspicion from him, should Danarius have asked the innkeeper to keep an eye out for Fereldan travelers.

"Just the one at the back. Company room, ain't no private ones left but you're it for the night so far."

Anders wouldn't have cared if he had to share it with a dozen others. He slid some silver to the man and asked for supper as well. Bill settled, he climbed the staircase to the second floor, stopping briefly outside one door, heart pounding wildly.

_Fenris!_

Every muscle in his body screamed at him to bust it down, to break the lock and burst into the room, to kill the man that held his Crusader. But he forced himself to walk past to the end of the hall and into another room. It was large, boasting several bunk beds and cots, and pallets tossed haphazardly on the floor. Clearly it was one step above sleeping in the stables, but it didn't bother Anders. He set his things on a bed and paced slowly, thinking.

The door opened and interrupted his thoughts a few minutes later; he thanked the barmaid who brought him supper. Sitting down on the floor, tray in his lap, he sipped idly at the soup, frowning as his mind continued to work out the possibilities. It hurt him to be so close and yet so far away from Fenris. But going to him now meant failure and certain death. He could try to sneak in and kill Danarius in the night but precautions would have been taken to prevent that. While he could pick a lock, he had no idea if any magical traps would be set, or what to expect beyond every defensive move he could think of and, he was sure, those he could not.

The tray was soon empty, the meat and cheese gone, the soup finished. Anders mopped up the dregs of it with some hard bread and sipped idly at his canteen. The gnawing hunger he'd felt for the last several days was finally abated, and he felt the ache of exhaustion in his muscles. Climbing to his feet, he placed the tray outside the door and sat down on his bed, tapping his fingertips against his knee.

"Tomorrow morning," he whispered to the empty room.

He would have to follow them out, assuming they were leaving the next morning, wait until they were far enough away from the town and confront Danarius then. It would give him an idea of how many he had with him, how many soldiers he would have to contend with. He would have the element of surprise and terrain willing, possibly the high ground. While there was still a good chance that he would end up dead, he would be better prepared in the morning.

And if Danarius did take him hostage? Then what? Greagoir and Irving would hear about where he'd gone and what he'd done. Perhaps then they'd take him seriously and send out a company to find them. And Karl would-

Maker's breath, he'd forgotten Karl.

The sound of the slap echoed in the empty room as he brought palm to forehead. In his haste to get to Fenris, he'd forgotten all about his friend, how Karl would feel if anything happened to him. Hastily he opened his pack and scribbled a message to Karl, apologizing to him. But with no way to get it to him, he simply stuck it back in his pack with the rest of his things. If they found his body, Karl would read it. If not…

He tried not to think about the prospect of dying or the implications of being taken alive. The food in his belly weighing him down, he shifted down onto the lumpy mattress, sending a last burst of reassurance to Fenris before sleep finally claimed him.


	13. Chapter 13

He thought it had been part of a fever dream, feeling Anders so close to him. But in the morning, while his mind was still a bit fuzzy, he felt it again. His fever broke sometime in the night and breakfast was a terse affair. Danarius continued to treat him as an invalid, and Fenris acted the part, not wanting his master to know how well he felt, nor give away his hopefulness at a rescue. There was no mistaking the familiar pulsating in his wrist, the swell of comfort in his breast. Anders was here, in Marothius, in this very inn.

_Why isn't he coming for me?_

A warm hand at the small of his back jolted him out of his thoughts. Danarius must have thought him still woozy, and Fenris didn't discourage it, only paying half attention to the comments directed his way.

"Yes, Master," he managed, struggling into his clothing. His arms and legs felt stiff and sore, and made his acting easier for him. The fabric felt coarse against his over sensitized skin, like prickles of electricity. It unnerved him.

He felt Anders close, yet distantly, and knew that his mage must be asleep still. Not for the first time he wished they could communicate telepathically through their link. His markings flared involuntarily as Danarius took up his staff, the magic in the air thrumming with power. Fenris packed their things obediently but slowly.

"We'll hire another carriage, as you seem to still be in recovery."

"Thank you, Master," Fenris muttered, keeping his eyes lowered, straining his ears for any noise, any hint that Anders was coming for him.

He followed Danarius from the room, glancing down the hall, tempted to run toward the door at the end where he knew Anders was sleeping. Barely a hundred feet away, yet it felt twice the distance to Ferelden from here. Turning away before Danarius spotted his longing gaze, Fenris hurried after his master. He waited while Danarius purchased food for the road and inquired after a carriage.

_You've come so far for me, mage, don't fail now._

Part of him felt disgusted with himself once more, silently begging to be rescued. Yet the other part was angry with Anders. Why wasn't he doing anything? With one last forlorn glance at the stairs, he followed Danarius once again, out into the chilly morning air. The sun had not quite risen, the sky a light grey. It was quiet in the square until the carriage rolled up; the driver greeted them enthusiastically. Fenris kept his eyes averted like he'd been taught, and climbed up into the carriage after Danarius.

A burst of anxious panic wracked his body and he was confused a moment until he realized it had not come from him. His markings flared painfully, causing him to reach out to grip the door handle. Danarius gave him a curious look.

"Apologies, Master."

"Do they ail you yet?" Danarius asked, in a damnably concerned tone.

Fenris reminded himself viciously that his master didn't care about him, only about his capabilities, his potential to serve. The affection would wax and wane like it always had, and he would be whipped for his next transgression, once he was well enough to sustain a beating. "I'm sure the pain will fade in a few more days."

"We'll treat them again in Qarinus. And one of Brexio's house slaves will massage the residual aches."

"Thank you, Master."

So Senator Brexio was in in Qarinus as well. Fenris leaned forward, massaging his temples, head aching. The magisters were planning something and it all seemed tied to whatever they needed King Alistair's blood for. He wished they'd been able to speak to Vovanis longer, to gather more information. But the threat then, whatever it was, had seemed so far off and foreign. While he had no way of knowing of his master's involvement, he felt guilty somehow. As if he should have anticipated this and warned the others.

The pain in his head faded, leaving him feeling drained as they trundled out the city, taking the path north. Fenris felt anxious, gripping the seat cushion, listening as Danarius turned the pages of a book, stopping occasionally to place a hand against his back in what was presumably a comforting fashion. But Fenris took no such comfort from the touch. Instead, he took it from the movement of Anders, who was close behind them. He felt the reassurance and tried to have confidence in his mage. What was taking him so long? Should he, Fenris, try to subdue Danarius?

The carriage stopped abruptly, then started again, Danarius losing his grip on his book. Scowling, he plucked it from the floor and brushed it off. "Imbecilic driver. Likely drunk already. We'll change in the next village."

But Fenris knew it wasn't the driver's fault. Not entirely. He could feel Anders here, with him, close enough to nearly reach out and touch. He closed his eyes and waited, remembering this feeling, the anticipation of battle, of a strike. Though they'd been separated so long, he hadn't lost the connection to his mage, the ability their link gave them that made mage-Crusader pairings so formidable in battle. He counted, breathing in slowly, breathing out, fingers clutching the door handle as the carriage sped up.

"Bloody fool," Danarius said, banging on the ceiling. "The roads are wet, he's going to-"

He cut off as the carriage lurched, then toppled over. Fenris flung the door open and leapt out as Danarius was thrown to the opposite end with the force. He heard his master cry out as he landed, rolling in the dirt, coming slowly to his feet. He'd been out of practice, chained and tortured, his movements slower, his reflexes sluggish. But he looked up and the memories of the last few weeks were chased immediately from his mind at the sight of his mage – of Anders – standing before him.

"We're not out of this yet!" Anders called, tossing him his sword.

Fenris nearly fumbled, but caught it and gave it a swing, muscle memory kicking in abruptly. Anders knocked his staff to the ground as the first shades exploded around them. A shimmering shield formed over Fenris's skin, and the familiar tingling of Anders' protective magic enveloped him. His markings flared and pulled, but they didn't hurt. He turned the sword again in his hand and prepared himself to fight as Danarius pulled himself from the carriage, a thin trickle of blood sliding down his forehead.

"Foolish," Danarius spat. He held his staff in hand, leaning on it for support as he stepped away from the wreckage. "Fenris. Come to me now, and we'll forget this happened. I may even let the mage live."

The shades closed in on Anders, and Fenris gave his answer in the form of a primal cry, leaping forward to defend his friend from his master's foul magic.


	14. Chapter 14

Fenris felt the heat and strain in his muscles as he swung his sword, plunging it deep into the leathery surface of another shade. They seemed endless, clawing their way from the earth, their eerie glowing eyes fixated on Fenris. He felt Anders but dared not look away from his own battle to make sure his mage wasn't outnumbered. His muscles screamed and he longed to stop, to rest, to give in. But he wouldn't. He was too close to freedom to throw it away again so easily. The memory of the Fog Warriors in the back of his mind, he pushed himself, sweat pouring from his brow.

The guttural cry of a rage demon sounded through the clearing and Fenris leapt out of the way of a fireball flung toward him. He heard Anders shout, a warning or a spell, he couldn't tell. Fenris phased his body, though his markings protested the shift, and he burst two shades from the inside out. The rage demon was not so easily dispatched, dodging Fenris's sprint towards it. Fenris skidded to a halt, turned, and thrust his arm forward, palm extended. A wave of blue-white light exploded from his hand, enveloping the area momentarily.

When the light faded, the shades had disintegrated, the rage demon howling in pain from the cleanse ability Fenris learned in his Crusader training. He took the opportunity to strike, bringing his sword down diagonally across its fiery body, cleaving it in two. It gave the impression of melting before it erupted into a molten mess, leaving behind a pile of red-hot ash. He pushed his bangs out of his eyes and turned to help Anders.

"No!" he shouted, before he fully registered the scene before him.

Danarius lay on the ground, staff broken in two, hand up to defend himself. But there was no defense, no magic he could perform, caught in a paralysis glyph. Anders leveled his staff, and too late Fenris ran toward him, a crackle of electric energy pulsing from the mouth of the dragon's head. It caught Danarius squarely in the chest. The purple light that surrounded him faded, and the magister slumped to the ground, unmoving.

Momentum carried Fenris forward and he tripped over himself, sword dropping at his side as he fell to his knees in front of Danarius. He took his master's head between his hands, a thousand emotions coursing through him, not all of them his own. Pressing a hand to Danarius's chest, he confirmed what he already knew. The man was dead. He was finally free. The din of the battle was gone, leaving behind an uncomfortably quiet morning, and Fenris didn't realize he was crying until tears blurred his vision. He blinked, confused, feeling them hot against his cheeks.

"Fenris."

Fenris turned quickly, getting to his feet, an unusual anger filling him. The words were out of his mouth before he fully understood why. "You killed him. You should have left him to me!"

Years of being under Danarius's thumb, years of bowing and scraping, enduring punishment after punishment, being tortured and raped and made to follow every unsavory order. And he was robbed of the satisfaction of ending the life that had made his a living hell.

"Fenris, he's dead. That's all that matters!"

"No!"

Fenris threw himself at Anders, catching him off-guard. They tussled in the dirt, but Anders was taller and heavier, and hadn't been burdened by the ritual of lyrium being injected into his skin. Fenris found himself beneath Anders, wrists pinned painfully to the ground. He struggled, gnashing his teeth, cursing in Tevene, ordering him to let him up.

"You should have left him to me!" he snarled again.

"You stupid, stubborn, petulant elf!" Anders cried, slamming his wrists down. "Listen – bloody LISTEN to me, Fenris! Maker's breath, shut up! Can't you understand-"

"I understand you robbed me of my rightful kill, _mage_ ," Fenris spat.

"You don't understand! I couldn't lose you!" The grip tightened painfully, and Anders' expression went from anger to sorrow in an instant. "I couldn't! I can't… not after… Not again. Not after Justice. Not… Not…"

Fenris felt the anguish as if it was his own, and a moment later his lips were covered by Anders' hot mouth in a searing kiss. His eyes widened in surprised, in shock, before he allowed them to close and his own mouth to open. The fight fled his body and he relaxed, unclenching his fists, muscles uncoiling. His tongue met Anders' tentatively and someone moaned quietly. The fingers around his wrists loosened and he reached up without thinking, gripping the back of Anders' head, holding him in place.

What started as a desperate needy kiss slowly softened into something more sensual, Anders pulling back only slightly to start the kiss anew, lips brushing Fenris's gently. Fenris released Anders' head, hands sliding down to his shoulder, then his chest, to his hips which bucked against his own. He groaned, lifting up to meet them, erection painful and stiff. He wanted nothing more than to disrobe right here in the middle of the lane and fuck his mage into the dirt. They'd been separated too long, but too many things were left unsaid. They needed to clear the air first.

He needed to apologize. And to hear one in turn.

"Anders."

Anders kissed his cheek, then his jaw, moving upward toward his earlobe.

"Anders."

His breath hitched when teeth found his lobe, and he quivered as Anders moved down toward his neck, biting softly, sucking at skin, then licking the bruised flesh. He gripped fabric near Anders' hips, pulling him down so their groins met once more, and was rewarded with a soft, whimpering gasp in his ear.

"Mage," he growled. "We need… we have to… it is not safe."

"Maker help me, Fenris, I don't care," Anders said in a rush.

Fingers were at his tunic, pulling at the ties, and Fenris forced himself to push at Anders' chest. Hurt in his eyes, Anders sat up, and Fenris followed him, one hand on his shoulder, the other balled into a fist at his side. Anders' lips were swollen and he looked every bit the child whose toys had been taken from him.

"I want… Not… we need to talk," Fenris stammered, breathing heavily.

"Weeks."

The word hung between them. But there was also an understanding, an acknowledgment. They needed to talk, and it was too dangerous here to do so. Anders stood, though the petulant expression did not leave his face as he helped Fenris up. For a moment, Fenris thought he was to be flung back to the dirt and ravished, and a small part of him wished it would happen, for he would've let it. There was no fight left him to deny himself or Anders again. But Anders merely took up his own bag and the bag that Danarius packed, finding useful provisions within.

He held out his hand to Fenris. "We'll hike and make camp further south. It's not safe to return to Marothius."

Fenris slid his hand into Anders', fingers entwining. He bent to retrieve his sword, stopping as he straightened to look at Danarius, at his blank stare, the eyes that held contempt and anger and sometimes even affection for him. He stood up, the warmth of Anders' hand and his comforting assurance settling in his chest, and allowed himself to be pulled away from the scene.


	15. Chapter 15

"Something is wrong."

Faustinus swallowed nervously, palms sweating as he returned from the Fade. He was supposed to have met with Danarius to speak again before his colleague reached Qarinus. But he wasn't there. His magical signature was missing from the Fade entirely, which was extremely unusual. There was no reason for Danarius to try to block his attempts to find him. He glanced at his fellow magisters seated before him. Brexio's hands were clasped against his prominent belly, thumbs twirling anxiously. Desidario stared at him, one eye dark, the other milky white. But what unnerved him was the third man, someone he'd only recently been doing business with.

Aurelian Titus cut an imposing figure, taller even than Desidario. But where Aurelian was thin, Desidario was broad-shouldered, a build that all Rivaini men seemed to share. Aurelian's stare bore into him and he tried to ignore it, looking at Desidario instead. He didn't like him very much either, though. In fact, he held no affection for any of the men he currently was working with, but had a passing respect for Danarius. He was at least a predictable ally, and he was well aware of his strengths and weaknesses. Brexio was not and never had been a fighter, clearly invited into the fold due only to his formidable wealth. And Faustinus himself? He knew he was unrivaled in his control of the Fade, though there were whispers of Aurelian being a somniari. But if that was true, why would Faustinus have been called in to help?

He never should have answered Danarius's letter, the promise of power and riches. He would be home in Solas now, enjoying his vineyards and counting coins and preparing for the next festival or parade in the capital. Instead he was here, trying not to quell under the gaze of man he'd only met a handful of times before.

"Well?" Desidario prompted.

Faustinus focused on him, more familiar with and therefore less intimidated by him than Aurelian. "Danarius's magical signature is missing from the Fade. He wasn't where he promised he'd be. I fear something has happened to him."

"Of course it has," Aurelian said coolly, his tone devoid of any concern. "Where was he last?"

Faustinus cleared his throat, thinking back a few days. "We spoke when he crossed the mountains. He came from the east, not the south as we originally thought. They were in Antiva, coming across the Hundred Pillars."

"Fool," Desidario sighed, bringing a fist against the table as he stood. His usual temper seemed subdued as he stepped away, glancing out the large window that overlooked the sea. "The Nevarran border would have been safer. Our soldiers went for nothing." He paused. "Dead, then?" he asked, barely looking over his shoulder.

"The only way to be sure is to see the body, of course," Faustinus continued, ill to think of Danarius dead. Dead how? At the hands of his slave? Fenris was formidable, but he couldn't face Danarius alone.

"It doesn't matter," Aurelian interrupted, standing as well. He moved to the side table which housed an array of liquor. He poured two glasses of wine, handing one to Desidario, keeping the other for himself.

Faustinus saw the hopeful look on Brexio's face, but knew it was a purposeful slight against the both of them that Aurelian put the decanter back down without pouring another. Desidario took the glass, sipping idly, one hand behind his back as he thought. Faustinus waited, feeling an uncomfortable droplet of sweat sliding down his temple. He waited until Aurelian turned away before wiping it from his cheek.

"You'll take a company of soldiers along the road to Marothius," Desidario said at last. "Recover Danarius's body if it is there to recover." He turned back to face Faustinus. "Find who did this to him and detain them. And if it turns out his slave was involved, bring him back here alive. We'll have him whipped for his impertinence."

Faustinus cleared his throat. "And… after he is whipped?"

Desidario raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Well, Fenris is a capable warrior. It would be a shame to…"

Aurelian and Desidario exchanged a look.

Desidario swirled the wine in his glass. "If you're successful, I see no reason as to why the slave wouldn't make an excellent addition to your collection. You may want to keep him collared and bound, all things considered."

Faustinus wanted to retort with sarcasm. He didn't need Desidario's permission to take Fenris and certainly hadn't been asking for it. However, it would be stupid to challenge the man now. The plan had to continue, for good or ill. And while he would be left out of the finer points of strategizing while he was away, he thought a brief break from their group was warranted. Especially considering he'd vouched for Danarius and the plan to include Fenris in the seizure of the Theirin bastard.

That was Desidario and Aurelian's headache now.

He nodded – not bowed – to Desidario and took his leave. Not wanting to be caught unprepared and ending up like they believed Danariusto be, he employed two dozen soldiers and took along his own slave warrior. Not in Fenris's league, but formidable in his own right, they'd won many Provings together. Faustinus only hoped it would be enough.

And if not… well, there was no shame in a tactful retreat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author ramblings ahead!
> 
> Faustinus Scaevola, Desidario, and Brexio are my own OC magisters. I initially invented Faustinus awhile ago for "Dark Corners of the Mind" which was written before "Compliance and Sedition" but published after (it needed serious editing). I needed a magister skilled in the Fade who would be discreet and willing to help for the right amount of coin. After looking at Thedas, I decided on Solas as a good city for him to live in, not too far from the Free Marches, far enough away from Minrathous to be comfortable for Hawke and Anders. There are some lovely coincidental parallels between Faustinus and the character Solas (not the least of all being the name of 'Solas'). One of which includes eye color and a pet theory of mine that I won't expound upon due to spoilers for DAI and other DA media (books).
> 
> He remains probably my favorite OC that I've ever created and if I need a magister in future, you'll likely see him crop up from time to time.
> 
> Brexio was actually largely based off Horace Slughorn from Harry Potter. He's a character that I RPed a lot with my wife and I enjoyed his sort of ... "I have all the connections in the world" yet he's somewhat of a coward. Desidario isn't based off anyone in particular, but I wanted a shrewd foil to Danarius for Compliance and Sedition that didn't entirely get fleshed out. So here he's the main antagonist.
> 
> Aurelian Titus, well. You should read the comics if you haven't because he's just a fantastic fucking character that I hope I've done justice to!


	16. Chapter 16

The fire burned hot, logs cracking and breaking the silence. The smell of cooked rabbit, caught by Fenris and skinned by Anders, permeated their little camp. Vegetables and broth sat in a precariously balanced pot on crisscrossing sticks over the fire. Fenris drew a whetstone down over his blade, making a satisfying scraping sound as he sharpened it. Anders sat next to him, close enough that they brushed arms and thighs whenever the other shifted. He was polishing the head of his staff, and neither spoke for a long time.

Fenris cleared his throat. "Where… where is Ser Pounce-a-lot?" It was a safe enough question, provided the cat was well.

"I left him in Denerim with King Alistair," Anders replied easily. "I didn't think it was safe for him here."

"Ah." Fenris found himself agreeing with the decision, but all the same he wished the cat was there. It would have broken the awkward tension they found themselves in. "Regarding the king…" He frowned, wondering how to phrase exactly what he knew. "I believe that Danarius was planning something with another magister. Perhaps several, which involved kidnapping him."

Anders dropped the polishing cloth and set his staff aside, turning to look at Fenris. "So it was Danarius who set it up then?"

"You know of it?" Fenris asked, surprised.

"There was an attempt on the king's life, or so we thought," Anders explained, relaying the story of the attackers in the palace. "I left before the one was to be interrogated. I assume it's the same plot."

"Unless there are multiple groups that want your king dead," Fenris ventured.

It was meant to be an almost light-hearted statement, but the idea that Alistair could possibly attract several assassins did nothing to lift the mood.

"They said specifically that they needed his blood," Fenris continued. "I can only assume it's for some foul ritual."

"We'll have to bring the news to Irving," Anders said. His brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth tugged into a deep frown. "Maker, if they even let me back into the Church."

"Let you back? You didn't-"

"I didn't run away. I went through proper channels. Or I tried," Anders corrected. "Maker knows I tried to get them to come after you, Fenris." His voice rose with irritation and desperation. "They promised me they would. And I believed that they would listen, and I - fuck!"

He broke off so abruptly that Fenris immediately reached out. Bare skin met bare skin as their fingers entwined automatically. Anders' free hand ran up through his hair, catching on the tie to his ponytail. He pulled it loose and Fenris watched his fingers run through his hair once more. Carefully, Fenris reached up, tucking a strand behind his ear, letting his own fingertips trail down his jaw, turning Anders to face him. They were close enough that he felt the mage's warm breath against his lips, and he closed the gap, kissing him gently.

They stayed like that for a time, Anders releasing his hand to wrap both arms protectively around Fenris, pulling him against him. Fenris's hand landed on Anders' thigh and he squeezed, not to arouse but to reassure. After the last few weeks, it was surreal to know that he was safe and Anders was here with him, holding him. The only thing he'd wanted since they'd been forcibly separated. When they pulled apart, he kept his eyes closed, feeling Anders' forehead against his own.

"I was so worried," Anders whispered. "I begged them to let me go to you. But it was one thing after another. The royal wedding, there was an attack in Kirkwall. And… "

"And?" Fenris asked, sitting back.

"There was an attack in Kirkwall," Anders said again. "Templars turned against templars, Crusaders caught in the middle. We were requisitioned to help."

Fenris quelled the flash of anger that rose in him. He understood that every military outfit had its orders, but an uprising in Kirkwall seemed to be the main reason why no one had been sent after him sooner. He knew Greagoir was a hard man, but perhaps he'd overthought his own wealth. Maybe the Crusaders weren't the answer. After all, Danarius was dead now, and he could leave if he wanted. But what about Anders? A mage wasn't afforded the same liberties he was, now that he was truly free.

"What happened?" Fenris prompted, not wanting to think about that decision yet.

Anders shook his head, looking sick. "Fenris, Bethany is dead."

The words hit him like a cold bucket of icy water through his veins. "What?" he asked, unable to process the information at first. "She's…"

"I'm sorry. In the attack, she… she died trying to save Hawke."

"Hawke, is he-"

"He's fine." Anders quickly corrected himself, adding, "Physically. He wouldn't talk to me. He… I was there and so he blames me and maybe I am to blame. If I'd been faster or more powerful or-"

"You did everything you could have." Fenris didn't have to be there to know the truth of it. His own grief was put aside in order to comfort Anders, whose hands were clenched into fists, knuckles turning white. Carefully, Fenris prised them open and gripped them tightly. "You may be an insufferable mage, but you are a good person. I know you did all you could. I… I will speak with Hawke next we see him."

Anders swallowed and nodded. "Yes. All right."

Fenris exhaled, releasing Anders' hands, but he didn't move away. "What… what else have I missed?"

"Are you all right?" Anders asked suddenly. "Danarius, did he-"

"Do not…" Fenris started, his expression darkening. The memories of the last few days in particular surfaced quickly and he tried to ignore them, tried to think of anything else. "I do not wish to discuss… it… is nothing I haven't… before…" Words failed him, and again he found himself in Anders' arms. He buried his face against his neck, breathing deeply, taking the offered comfort. "It happened. And it will never happen again."

Anders pulled back enough to look him in the eye. "I swore that I'd keep you safe. I… I failed. I'm sorry, Fenris. I am so sorry. I was stupid. I shouldn't have-"

"Shut up."

"All right."

Fenris laughed, an uneasy sound that burst forth without warning. He shook his head at Anders' bewildered expression. "I apologize. I never thought that it would be that easy to quiet you." The memories of his last few weeks, the knowledge of Bethany's death, all his aches and pains both emotional and physical dulled once more as Anders smiled.

"It's only because I feel horrible about all the things that happened," Anders offered.

"Don't. You couldn't have prevented it, even if… even if we had that talk we were supposed to have had." He paused. "He took my cuff."

Anders looked down and his fingers brushed over Fenris's left wrist where the cuff had been. "I can still feel you."

"And I you," Fenris confirmed. "It's… odd. But not unwelcome. I held onto the hope and…"

Anders cupped his cheek with his other hand. "We'll research it when we get back."

"Mage," Fenris whispered, feeling Anders' thumb brushing along his cheekbone. "We should have that talk now."

"I…" Anders shifted in his seat. "It's…" He brushed his hair back out of his eyes and chewed nervously on his lip. "I think that I've… developed feelings for you and…"

Fenris gave him an incredulous look before clearing his throat. "Perhaps we should skip the talk."

Anders shoved him playfully with his shoulder, but smiled.

"Kiss me," Fenris ordered. "We can pretend the last few weeks never happened, if only for a time."

"Do you mean…"

Fenris wasn't sure what he meant, how far he was willing to go, what he wanted from Anders in the long run. He pulled his mage's head down, pressing his lips firmly against Anders'. He would, he thought, figure that out as it came. As for now, he truly did wish to forget.

If only for a time.


	17. Chapter 17

A whispered reverence followed First Enchanter Irving and Crusader Commander Greagoir as the two of them stalked through the halls of Kirkwall's Church. The templars who'd stayed loyal to the Chantry and not sided with Meredith temporarily relocated there with the Chantry's mages. Those in charge thought it best to rally together despite their differences, and the Gallows remained quiet and empty for now. Following closely behind Irving and Greagoir was a dwarf, a young woman with short red hair, clutching several books, parchment, and a quill, dressed in the uniform of the Crusader. Greagoir was speaking, giving orders and making note of things while Dagna scribbled furiously as they walked.

Greagoir stopped abruptly, boots clicking on the stone as he came face to face with Knight-Captain Cullen, who'd become de facto leader in the face of the attack. Viscount Dumar, once released from his prison cell, bestowed the authority upon him with the Grand Cleric's blessing. Cullen rose to the occasion in the following the days, issuing orders, watching the mages carefully, sending teams to the Gallows daily to ready it once again for habitation.

"Commander," Cullen said with a slight bow. "Welcome to Kirkwall. I beli-"

"Where is my lieutenant?" Greagoir asked, cutting him off abruptly. His last communication with Cullen had been months ago in regards to Fenris and Anders. He remembered with a distinct lack of fondness the chastising words that reminded him that he was to send word to the Chantry whenever a mage was assigned a new Crusader. It wasn't something he'd taken kindly to, and face to face with the man now, knowing that not only Fenris, but Anders as well were missing, did nothing to lighten his mood.

"Lieutenant Jacobsi fell in the attack, Commander," Cullen said, brow furrowed. "He-"

"Get me someone from my regiment then, Captain. I need a report."

Beside Greagoir, Irving gave a soft chuckle, causing Greagoir to bristle. Cullen gave another stiff bow and hurried off. Greagoir raised an eyebrow, turning to Irving, who looked away innocently. Dagna wisely did not add this to her report.

The crowd parted, allowing Hawke through. Though not currently wearing his armor, he still cut an impressive figure, a head taller than most, broad shouldered, but lacking the usual bounce in his step. He stopped in front of Greagoir, frowning slightly.

Greagoir offered his hand. "Hawke."

Hawke clasped forearms with him. "Commander. You didn't have to come all this way. We've settled things." His voice was thin and hollow, his eyes dull and tired.

"On the contrary. I'm reassigning you and your brother here. Permanently if you'd like." He paused, then added, "His mage as well of course."

Irving pursed his lips in a mirthless smile. "We thought it best, considering the circumstances. Where is your dear mother? I must pay my respects. We were so devastated to hear, Garrett, I'm so sorry."

Hawke, blinking quickly, barely nodded, but said nothing.

Greagoir cleared his throat. "Your brother is just-"

"Garrett."

Hawke looked up. Behind Dagna – and he caught her eye briefly before looking away – he saw his brother and Jowan. The latter looked horribly subdued, clutching his bag in front of him like a shield, while Carver's face was carefully blank. He started toward Hawke, stopping just in front of him, his eyes glassy, his jaw set. Hawke braced himself for anything: Carver screaming at him, a punch to the face. He would have taken it. Instead, to the surprise of everyone who knew the legendary rivalry of the Hawke brothers, Carver pulled him into an embrace.

Irving cleared his throat and touched Greagoir lightly on the shoulder. "Orders later, Greagoir. We have a missing team to worry about right now," he said quietly.

Greagoir frowned but went, leaving the Hawke brothers to mourn with their mother. "I hate to lose the Hawkes, Irving. They're good men."

"I daresay that Kirkwall will need a few good men, with one thing and another. Dagna, you may go, my dear," Irving said, glancing back to her.

Dagna shifted from foot to foot. "Yes, First Enchanter." But she didn't move.

"Yes?" Irving asked.

Greagoir turned, frowning. "What is it?"

"Are you sending a team for Fenris and Anders?" she asked quickly, as if her question was somehow impertinent.

"That would be at the top of our agenda once this business has been sorted," Irving said.

"And… you aren't going to punish Anders for running, are you?" She was rocking back and forth, shifting from the balls of her feet to her heels.

"That is for the First Enchanter and myself to discuss," Greagoir said, remembering his patience. It was difficult at times with someone like Dagna who always seemed to find his last nerve and lean ever so persistently on it.

"Now, now, Greagoir," Irving said, with an indulgent sort of tone. "You can't fault the young lady for wanting her friends safe." He looked at her. "I'll take what he has to say into consideration."

"Can I be on the team? The one to find Fenris and Anders? Please?"

Greagoir closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath before opening them. "Once it's been discussed, I will make the assignments. I wouldn't count on-" He cut off as a mage rounded the corner too quickly, bumping into him and bouncing backward off his solid frame.

Papers scattered on the floor, and the Rivaini boy quickly apologized, gathering the dropped parchment. Dagna knelt to help.

"I beg your pardon, serah," he said. "Oh, thank you," he added to Dagna, who handed him his fallen papers.

"Are you all right?" Dagna asked.

Greagoir felt amusement that wasn't his own. He automatically knew what Irving was thinking, and looked at him incredulously, shaking his head. Irving, mischievous twinkle in his eye, moved to intercept the mage boy when he stood.

"Apologies, ser-… Maker's breath, you're the Church's First Enchanter, aren't you? I recognize your robes." His eyes widened almost comically.

"I am indeed. And you are?" he asked, holding out a polite hand.

The papers shifted and fluttered to the floor once more as the boy shook his hand eagerly. "Alain. My name's Alain. I heard so much about you."

Irving chuckled as Dagna retrieved the papers again and glanced toward Greagoir, winking before looking back to Alain.

"Irving, we haven't the time," Greagoir said, trying not to snap at his companion in front of the others.

"Do shut up, dear Commander." Irving shifted, leaning more heavily on his staff. "You've heard about me? Within the Chantry?"

"Er," Alain said, taking the papers from Dagna. "Thank you. Er. No, not in the Chantry. There was a Church mage here. With the rest. We were paired together when we infiltrated the city. He spoke about the Church. And you. And a few others. Said the Church was always welcoming mages who wanted a chance to live free out from the Chantry's… ah. Well. I don't want to speak poorly of the Chantry. But considering what happened…"

"Was this mage a tall, thin, blond man with a ponytail?" Irving asked.

Greagoir pinched the bridge of his nose. Even when Anders was on the run, he was still creating headaches for him.

"Er, yes. Yes, serah. He was. Anders."

"Oh I know Anders!" Dagna said excitedly. "He's so polite and he always has time to talk about the mage hierarchy and-"

"Yes, Dagna, thank you," Irving said, not unkindly. "Alain, was it?" He continued when Alain nodded. "This is Dagna, one of our Crusaders. She's quite friendly with Anders and his Crusader, who are currently… indisposed at the moment. I was wondering if you could show her around the city. She can talk to you a bit about joining the Church. That is, if you're interested."

Alain looked confused a moment, then smiled, nodded. "Yes! Yes, that is, I… Well. Knight-Captain Cullen won't appreciate it if a mage goes wandering…"

"I will clear it with your Knight-Captain Cullen," Irving said, patting him on the shoulder. "Off you go then. Dagna, you too. Perhaps we'll have a new recruit by the end of the day. Something good to come of all this tragedy, yes? Yes, indeed."

"Yes, First Enchanter!" she said excitedly. "By your leave, Commander."

Greagoir waved her away and watched the two of them start down the hall together. "Really, Irving, you are too much."

"On the contrary," Irving said, "I do believe I am just enough."

Greagoir sighed and followed Irving down the hall opposite. There was too much to plan and too many unknown variables. But he had to admit, if only grudgingly, that Irving had a point. Finally finding a mage to match Dagna would be a bit of good news they were all in need of.


	18. Chapter 18

The attack came swiftly and without warning. Fenris felt himself a fool to think he was free and clear of Danarius. They were still in Tevinter and he was still a slave, still property. He would never be truly free. Only days after the flooding relief he felt when Danarius finally lay dead he found himself once more in chains. And worse, Anders taken prisoner as well. Unconscious now but still alive, he lay in the cart, Fenris kneeling next to him, his hands bound behind his back. Six soldiers and two Qunari – no, Tal-Vashoth – sat with them, making sure they couldn't run. Fenris surveyed Anders, watched his even breathing. A slash across the forehead, superficial, but he was otherwise untouched. Fenris's arm ached where an arrow pierced his bicep, since removed and healed inexpertly by Faustinus, who rode in a carriage ahead of them.

It angered Fenris that he hadn't been more prepared for it. Of course Faustinus would know something happened to Danarius and would mount a search. He'd thought foolishly that they had more time before having to face anything daunting. His freedom was so short-lived. But he was alive, and if Anders taught him anything, it was that where there was life, there was hope. And now the Church would definitely have to come, wouldn't they? Or would they decide that Anders and Fenris were too much trouble and leave them to their fate? Greagoir was a practical man, but Irving? Fenris hadn't known him that long, but he didn't believe it of the man. And certainly Karl and Hawke and-

He squashed that line of thought quickly. It wouldn't do to dwell on Bethany now. If – no, _when_ he got back to Ferelden or Kirkwall or wherever Hawke and Carver were, Fenris would express his condolences and mourn her properly. But he had to keep his mind about him now, especially if he wanted to make sure he wouldn't be mourning Anders as well. Faustinus knew his worth, knew what Fenris could do and wouldn't throw him away so easily. He would be kept or sold for an impossible sum and possibly shipped to Minrathous. And Anders? A spirit healer, something rare even in Tevinter. He would be apprenticed to a magister, perhaps even Faustinus himself.

The thought of Anders as a magister, great and powerful, wielding dark magic and commanding slaves was such an absurd one that Fenris snorted. He bowed his head to cover the noise and heard a soldier's remark about tears and weakness. Had his hands been free, Fenris would have shown the man how weak he truly was. He would regret the jape the second Fenris held his heart in front of his eyes. But petty revenge fantasies weren't going to help now. He had to focus.

"Anders," he whispered, lips against his ear.

They'd lain together for the last few nights, never doing more than kissing, touching, learning each other all over again in a different way. Every time Anders took a step further, Fenris stopped him, feeling frustrated with his own inability to continue. He would think of Danarius, of being used in such a way. And while Anders' touch was nothing like his old master's, the memories were too overwhelming. And Anders would hold him gently, kiss him, and reassure him that they had time now.

But they didn't anymore, did they?

"Anders," he whispered again.

Anders' eyes fluttered open and he groaned, immediately trying to reach up for his head, but couldn't with his hands bound behind his back as well. He struggled, a panic flittering across their bond. 

Fenris pressed his lips to his cheek. "Be still. Calm."

The words along with Fenris's own lack of panic allowed Anders to stop struggling. He looked up at him, blinking in the bright sunlight. The attack came just before dawn and judging from the position of the sun and how long it felt they'd been traveling, it was nearly noon now. Fenris was thirsty, hungry, and sore. He imagined Anders must have felt the same.

"You yet live," Fenris muttered. 

Anders rolled to his back, struggling to sit up. His attempts were the source of some amusement among the soldiers, and Fenris felt the swell of frustration and anger from his partner.

"Haha very funny, a bound mage who can't sit up. Tee-hee."

One of the Tal-Vashoth leaned forward. "You should count yourself fortunate, bas saarebas, that your lips are not sewn shut."

"I know more than a few people who agree with your suggestion. Too bad you don't get to make that decision!" Anders snapped.

"Mage!" Fenris hissed sharply.

"Here's one of them now," Anders said, jerking his head toward Fenris. Fenris must've projected his stunned, hurt feelings because Anders rolled his eyes at once. "A joke, you idiot."

"This is hardly the time," Fenris muttered, feeling the heat of embarrassment rising in his cheeks.

"On the contrary, it's the perfect time," Anders said, annoyance radiating off him.

To anyone, he appeared to be flippant. But Fenris could feel the fear underneath it. Anders was joking because he was scared. Fenris shifted closer to him. Thigh pressed against Anders'. Gratitude.

"Where are they taking us?" Anders asked, keeping his chin up, peering around the cart.

"Likely to Qarinus," Fenris said in the same quiet tone. Though these men were not his master, he still felt subdued in their presence.

"A city. Well, I hope they have proper baths. I seem to have dried blood on my face."

"Shut it," one of the soldiers said, rather bravely Fenris thought.

Anders might not have been a magister, but he was a mage, and no slave. Even the Laetans were shown respect by the Imperium's military.

"I don't think I will, thanks. Who's in charge around here?"

"Magister Faustinus," Fenris said, glancing toward the front of the line. He counted perhaps thirty soldiers before he could see no more. Faustinus was likely either in the middle or nearer the front, leading the group.

"I'd like to speak to him."

Fenris closed his eyes, perhaps forgetting in the few weeks they'd been separated just how obstinate Anders could be. "I do not believe he would grant you an audience."

"Sure he would. I'm a mage. He's a mage. We have a lot of magey things to talk about."

"Like what?" said the same soldier who'd told Anders to be quiet.

"Oh this and that. Mostly that he's holding a member of the Church of Andraste hostage and he may want to rethink his strategies."

There was a fluttering of whispers among the group. Fenris wondered if this was Anders' method to his madness. But Faustinus wasn't likely to make a deal. Not unless Anders could promise and deliver a very large sum of money. And the Church's coffers weren't bottomless.

"You can talk to him when we stop for the night," of the soldiers decided finally. "If he allows it."

Anders nodded, just a slight incline of the head before turning back to Fenris. In the middle of the cart, they could hardly have a private conversation. Even whispers were easily overheard. But Fenris met Anders' eye, and saw the glint of hope there, felt it within himself. While he didn't believe that Faustinus would just let them go, they were, at least, in this together.


	19. Chapter 19

They'd almost reached Qarinus when Anders finally was able to speak to Faustinus. He was just as Fenris remembered, tall and reedy with his violet eyes, an usual color that led him to think they were magically altered. He stroked his goatee in a seemingly offhanded sort of way, but Fenris knew better. He'd served this man wine on dozens of occasions, listened to Danarius talk about him, and knew his tics. Faustinus was nervous, sitting in his tent, surveying Anders. Fenris was forced to kneel, which he did despite Anders' protests.

"You've killed a magister," Faustinus said bluntly. "A senator of the Tevinter Imperium. Church mage or not, you'll have to answer to the courts."

Anders glanced down at Fenris, folding his arms. "And Fenris is a Church Crusader. He deserves more respect than what you're affording him now."

"Fenris," Faustinus said, leaning forward to take a glass of wine, "is a slave."

Fenris felt the surge of anger across their bond. He would have put a hand up to calm Anders, but his wrists were still bound behind his back.

"Regardless of the fact that his master is no longer alive," Faustinus added with a hint of sorrow in his tone.

"There's nothing in the law that states Fenris is free now that Danarius is dead?" Anders sounded incredulous.

Fenris had heard of slaves being set free once their masters passed, however it was unusual. More often, all the possessions – which included slaves – were handed down to the next of kin. Danarius had no sons that Fenris knew about and the man never married to his knowledge. The next in line would be someone who apprenticed with Danarius, but in last few years his own only apprentice had been-

Suddenly he looked up, catching Faustinus's eye. "No," he whispered.

Faustinus shifted, placing his wine down and stood. He crossed the short distance and before either Fenris or Anders could respond, he backhanded Fenris sharply across the face. Anders was on him a second, forgoing magic, fueled by righteous anger. A moment later soldiers flooded the tent, dragging Anders back. Fenris licked his lip, tasting the sharp tang of blood, but kept his eyes lowered.

"Bastard!" Anders snarled, pulling at the soldiers holding either arm. "Touch him again and I'll kill you! I might do it anyway on principle!"

Faustinus chuckled, returning to his seat, smoothing his robes. "Ironic, that Fenris felt impertinent enough to speak to me without being spoken to when he needn't even have worried. No, Fenris, not Hadriana. Maker knows where she is now. Unless a judge decides you need to go to her or be returned to the free market, you'll be assimilated into my own house."

Fenris sighed in relief, then realized the absurdity of this. He shouldn't be happy to hear this, despite the fact that Faustinus might prove a more forgiving master than Danarius. For one, he knew the man's proclivities for the finest things in life, which didn't include raping his slaves. He hired only the most skilled prostitutes, and seemed to prefer the female sex. Instead, he would be a proper bodyguard, perhaps made to fight for Faustinus's house in the Provings and even put on a show for Faustinus's colleagues. 

_You are no longer a slave._

The soldiers released Anders, and immediately he knelt down to heal Fenris, thumb brushing over his lip to wipe away the blood. "All right?" Anders whispered, cupping his face.

"I'm fine," Fenris muttered.

Anders peered at him, perhaps to make sure, then stood, keeping a hand on Fenris's shoulder. "If you let us go now, I can promise you we won't come after you. You'll remain alive. I'll instruct my fellows with the Church to leave you and the others in peace."

Fenris felt Anders' fingers dig into his shoulder. It was a lie. Anders might tell Irving and Greagoir to try not to kill Faustinus, but they couldn't ignore whatever the magisters were planning. They couldn't ignore the attempt to kidnap King Alistair. But Fenris knew it wouldn't matter. There was no way Faustinus would agree. Whoever was holding his leash now that Danarius was dead would not be pleased if they knew he'd had Anders and Fenris in his grasp and let them go.

Faustinus chuckled and retook his seat and his glass of wine. "You're very tiresome. No, you'll be brought to Qarinus and the courts will decide what to do with you. As far as Fenris goes, I've already claimed him."

"You can't _claim_ him!" Anders shouted. "He isn't a thing!"

"On the contrary," Faustinus said, and waved a hand.

The soldiers took Anders by the arms and started to pull him from the tent. Anders viciously shrugged them off and helped Fenris to his feet. He gave one backwards glare at Faustinus, and allowed himself to be led back to their cart. His hands were bound once more, and he huffed irritably when Fenris settled next to him.

"I told you he wouldn't listen."

"It was worth a try," Anders said shortly, blowing air through his bangs. His eyes darted left and right, looking at the impromptu camp. Four soldiers stood around the cart on guard duty, and dozens more milled around the tents. "If we-"

"No." Fenris knew already what Anders was thinking without hearing the words that would have followed. "We'd be killed for our troubles. We wait."

"Wait for what?" Anders asked, and Fenris heard and felt the exasperation that came with the words.

"Commander Greagoir and the others. Or we wait for a better opportunity once we reach the city." He felt a flood of irritation and leaned against Anders, butting his head underneath his chin. "This isn't Ferelden. You don't understand how things work here. Faustinus has put a claim on me. He'll likely want you to apprentice him. We'll stay together, find a way to escape."

"And in the meantime we just… what? Let them get on with whatever it is they're doing?" Anders asked incredulously.

Fenris frowned, leaning back to look at him. "Yes."

"That's-!"

"Anders." Fenris frowned, twisting his hands, feeling the cuffs binding him, digging into his wrists. "You cannot kill a cabal of soldiers and mercenaries along with a powerful magister. Danarius was on his own. He wasn't expecting it. Faustinus will have taken every precaution. And in Qarinus, it would take an army to extricate us. Would the Church wage a war on the Imperium to retrieve a single team?"

Anders opened his mouth, then shut it, his already pale skin turning greyish-white. "Maybe."

Fenris _hmm_ ed. He didn't believe Anders. Of course he was hopeful, but he knew Greagoir wasn't an idiot. He wouldn't want to start an international conflict over one pair. They would come up with a solution, one way or another. However, it would mean patience. Patience and most likely more pain before it was over.


	20. Chapter 20

Fenris recognized Brexio and Desidario, having poured wine for both men when Danarius entertained. Brexio's parties were legendary of course, a display of wealth and decadence and overall power. Fenris assisted in many dark rituals in order to secure his master a better position among the other magisters. It made him sick to see them now, his past flung at him in such a way. But the third man he'd never seen before, tall and intimidating, with a fierce look to his eye. Fenris stole a glance before kneeling down, keeping a hold on his anger as Anders was forced to kneel next to him.

"Good to see you still in one piece," Brexio said, though he sounded disingenuous.

"It seems you were successful then," Desidario added in his smooth, deep voice. "Fenris and… who is this one?"

"Wouldn't give a name," Faustinus said. "He identifies himself as 'Anders'."

"The only name I've known for two decades," Anders said flippantly.

Fenris closed his eyes, wishing that Anders would simply stay quiet. But he knew he wouldn't. It wasn't in his nature.

"A spirit healer," Desidario identified with a scoff. "Danarius let himself be killed by a slave and a nurse. Pathetic."

Anders glanced at Fenris as a surge of protective anger came across their bond. Fenris immediately tried to suppress the instinctive rage at hearing both his former master and Anders insulted in one go. What should he care that Desidario was insulting Danarius? They only barely got along, and even then they were more allies than acquaintances. He wondered how long it would take before he was rid of the final vestiges of loyalty he still harbored for Danarius.

"He killed Danarius," Faustinus said. "He needs to face the courts."

"I doubt we need to take it that far," Desidario said, turning toward the third man Fenris hadn't recognized. "Do you, Titus?"

Fenris wracked his memory, but couldn't recall anyone by that name. If he hadn't been a colleague of Danarius's, they must have met after Fenris escaped. Perhaps through Desidario or another. It made him an unknown entity to Fenris, and that unnerved him. Brexio was easily manipulated, even by slaves. He liked to be fed and complimented. Faustinus was a businessman who would always take the better deal if he thought there was one. And Desidario understood strength, and respected it. If Fenris was given to any of the three, he could easily convince them that it was better for Anders to come with him than given to the courts or another magister. But Titus, what was his weakness?

"Why should I care what you do with the-" Titus broke off abruptly and crossed the room, his boots clicking on the tile.

Fenris watched the hem of his robe swish behind him, and stole a glance at Anders, who was looking up defiantly, scowling. He pulled away as Titus bent to look him in the eye.

"Rude to stare," Anders spat.

Titus knelt in front of him, removed one of his leather gloves and abruptly sliced open his palm, pressing his bloodied hand to Anders' forehead. Fenris cried out as Anders fell to the ground, unconscious, and Faustinus pulled him away before he could leap in the middle of it. Titus's eyes rolled to the back of his head, and Fenris recognized the ethereal bluish glow around him. His body wavered; he was in the Fade. But how did he manage it so quickly and with so little blood? Other magisters, even Faustinus, had to prepare a ritual to enter the Fade. Danarius bled a woman to death in order to do it.

Whoever Titus was, apparently he wasn't someone so easily dismissed.

-

Anders opened his eyes, blinking, confused. He saw the burnt orange landscape, the sickly green of the sky above himself and felt immediately ill at ease.

"Maker's breath, just what I needed with the day I was having."

"Indeed."

Anders scrambled to his feet, reaching for his staff, but it wasn't there. In front of him stood an unfamiliar man. No, he knew him. He'd just met him. The trip to the Fade muddled his short term memory. 'Titus' he'd been called. And with less than an ounce of blood, he pulled them both into the Fade. He'd known First Enchanter Irving to use less lyrium than any other mage, but none of them had ever dabbled in blood magic. Was it truly that powerful, or was Titus an exception?

"Why did you bring me here, then? We can't talk face to face like normal people?" Anders asked, brushing himself off. 

Titus kept his distance, but circled slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "It's easier to talk without interruption here. And I wanted to be sure of what you were."

"What I am? What? A spirit healer. I am, but I don't see why you needed to bring me here to prove that of all things. It's not as if I actually control the spirits who help me heal." If he did, he would likely have asked them for help right now, though not for healing purposes.

Titus narrowed his eyes, stopping in front of him. "No. I could not care less about that. It's your blood I'm interested in."

"…And I'm interested in keeping my blood right where it is, thanks," Anders said warily, taking a step back.

Titus moved quickly, and Anders imagined he must have manipulated the Fade. In the next second they'd left the depressing orange landscape and were deposited in a room that would have looked like any regular sitting room of any nobleman's house except for the man chained to the far wall. Half-starved and dressed in rags, he looked oddly familiar to Anders, though he wasn't sure why, positive he'd never seen him before in his life. 

"King Maric," Titus said, solving the mystery.

Anders approached, expecting a reprieve, expecting Titus to pull him back or try to strike him. But the magister allowed it, and Anders pressed a hand to Maric's chest, feeling the light fluttering of a heartbeat. A pulse of healing magic flowed through him to Maric, but it didn't seem to do any good. Maric coughed, but remained seemingly unconscious.

"But King Maric is…"

"Dead?" Titus offered. He chuckled darkly. "So they thought. So they all thought. No, he's alive though only just."

"And you need Alistair for what?" Anders asked, turning to glare at him. "To replace him for whatever foul magic you've been conjuring?"

"How very astute of you."

Anders glowered at the compliment.

"Indeed I do," Titus continued, approaching slowly. "But it doesn't seem like I'll need Alistair after all. You see, I just need the blood from the Theirin line. In his veins runs the blood of a Great Dragon. Power beyond any what you could possibly imagine. Maric didn't want the power I freely offered him and he became an… unwilling pawn. But I will make you the same offer, Anders."

Anders glared, finally dropping his hand from Maric's chest and turning away from him. He crossed his arms to meet Titus's eye. "Become a blood mage? No thanks. Not keen on the whole demonic possession of the soul thing. It goes against pretty much everything I believe in."

"But you won't need a demon to help you. You'll be like Maric, but strong and powerful. It's in your blood."

"Fine," Anders said evenly. "I'll bite. What do I have that King Alistair doesn't, since apparently you can use me instead of him to fuel your little plan?"

Titus raised an eyebrow. "But of course you don't know. How delicious, this twist of fate that's brought us together."

"What _are_ you on about?" Anders said, growing more impatient.

"My dear spirit healer. You don't know, do you? Of course you don't," Titus said, chuckling again.

"Just come out with it. Stop stringing me along already, or should we just fight it out now?" Anders snapped.

"Why don't I need Alistair anymore? Why would I bother storming the Fereldan capital for one of Maric's bastards," Titus said with an amused sneer, "when I have another one of them right in front of me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five more chapters left to go! We're almost there, you guys! *dances*


	21. Chapter 21

Not even the seemingly bottomless wine cellars of the Amell estate could get Hawke drunk enough for his comfort. After Bethany's funeral, he remained lost in his grief, unable to climb out even for his mother's sake. He'd spoke to Commander Greagoir, gave his report punctuated by Knight-Captain Cullen. No, Knight-Commander now. The viscount had seen to that. Normally Hawke would have congratulated him, despite not liking the templars very much. It was good to keep their sister Chantry's soldiers on their side. But he didn't feel like congratulating anyone, nor did he feel like celebrating their victory. There were too many dead.

"Bethany."

He stared down at the bottle in front of him. His mother's estate was enormous, the dining room in which sat, no exception. And while she likely spent most of her time in the Church's barracks, working with other Crusaders, training them, the Church had no power to tell her where she could live, so long as she was within the city and could easily be reached. She hadn't taken another mage since Malcolm died, and likely never would. And now, faced with the same dilemma, Hawke thought he'd never take on another mage either. He'd been training to be a Crusader – Bethany's Crusader – since they were both young. He loved her more than anything, and now she was gone.

Other soldiers came and went, expressing their condolences, thanking Hawke for his help in the battle. But Hawke saw and heard none of it. As soon as Commander Greagoir had given him and Carver – and by proxy, Jowan as well – leave, he'd come straight here to get blind drunk. He'd asked Dagna to collect him twelve hours before he was to come off leave, more than enough time to sober up for the next task. With watery eyes she agreed, and apologized profusely for Bethany's death. But it wasn't her fault.

"Anders."

It wasn't even Anders' fault. And Hawke knew that. He felt wretched, having railed at his friend. But Anders knew, he understood. He hoped. And now he was gone. Greagoir took a company north to search for him and for Fenris. Hawke should have been part of the party, but he knew he was useless in this state. What good was he after all, if he couldn't even keep his baby sister safe? If one good thing had come from Bethany's death, however, it was that he and Carver were no longer fighting. There seemed to have been an unspoken cease-fire between then. However, they weren't really speaking to one another either, so how good was it after all?

He let everyone down. His mother, his brother, even his father. If there was a Maker, both Malcolm and Bethany were by his side now, Hawke knew that. But he didn't deserve a place there with them. He'd failed in his one duty. The worst of it was he could still hear Bethany's last words.

_It's not your fault._

But if not his, then whose? Certainly the templar that killed her. But Hawke should have been able to stop him before-

The bottle shattered in his fist, and he stared down, bewildered at the shards of glass in his palm, the lacerations on his fingers. It didn't even hurt; he was numb to the pain. A noise in the doorway interrupted his morose thoughts, and he looked up, the blurred vision of his mother approaching as the first tears fell.

"Mother."

Leandra took him by the arm into another room, Hawke following blindly. He let her clean the glass from his hand, not even feeling the sting of the medicine as she cleaned out the cuts and bandaged it up. Bethany could have used her magic to heal such little cuts. She would never cast magic again, though.

"Garrett," Leandra sighed, and pulled him close, stroking his hair the way she'd done when he was younger. "My little boy."

He sobbed on her shoulder, the first time he'd truly cried since he'd held Bethany's lifeless form in his arms. Despite how small Leandra was in comparison to him, he drew from her endless well of strength, clinging to her. Though a proud and fierce warrior, he'd desperately needed this, his mother's courage. And while he was nearly the spitting image of Malcolm, it was Leandra's tenacity he'd inherited. He'd been the one to comfort her and Bethany when Malcolm passed. He was their rock. He should have been strong through this as well. Bethany was his mother's only daughter.

"It's all right," Leandra soothed. "It's all right."

It wasn't. But it would be. Head swimming, he sat up, accepting the handkerchief she offered and cleaned himself up.

"'m a little drunk," he said.

Leandra raised an eyebrow, but smiled indulgently. "I know. It's fine. I think your grandfather would've been proud of your constitution."

"Even if I polished off a dozen bottles?"

"They weren't going anywhere anyway," she said, cupping his cheek. "Will you be all right? You should go to bed."

She stood, pulling him up, and managed to steady him despite his inebriation and size. They were on their way to one of the bedrooms when shouting erupted from outside.

"Not again," Hawke muttered, and released his mother, stumbling down the stairs and to the door. He opened it, head swimming a bit as he tried to search for the source of the screams. People were running through the square in a hurry. "What in the name of Andraste is going on?"

A man stopped briefly to look at him. "Dragons!"

"Maker have mercy," Leandra exhaled, coming to stand behind him.

They looked up into the night sky and saw several unmistakable dark outlines against the starlight. Hawke felt his drunkenness fade with the shock of it.

"Looks like they're heading for the Church," Leandra said, taking up her twin knives and handing Hawke his sword and shield.

Though in no state to fight, Hawke knew he couldn't abandon the city, leave or not. While the nobles were running away from the Church, the templars and Crusaders with their mages were hurrying to stop whatever attack might come. But it was odd, Hawke thought, that no attack did come. Six or seven dragons circling above and not a single burst of flame. They reached the Church slightly breathless, and two figures leapt from the back of one giant dragon. The smaller rolled expertly, while the other cracked the pavement, landing in a crouch.

"Now see here!" Knight-Commander Cullen said, sword drawn. "You will identify yourselves immediately or we'll be forced to arrest you!"

"He is rather demanding of your time, would you not say, my dear Warden?" came a thick Antivan accent out of the night.

Torchlight threw the Warden-Commander's face into sharp relief as he stood, walking forward with the Antivan elf Hawke recognized immediately.

"Cousland?" Hawke asked, sheathing his sword despite the dragons circling ever lower.

The crowd of soldiers and mages took a collective step back as one of them landed, transforming into a tall man with straight black hair and snow-white horns. Cullen looked as if he wanted to order the arrest of all three of them, but Hawke stepped forward, head starting to pound.

"Hawke," Cousland said, nodding to him. "I wish this were a social visit. When we stopped by the holdfast in Ferelden, they said Commander Greagoir was here. I need to speak to him. And the First Enchanter."

"They went north to look for Anders and Fenris."

The strange man looked at Cousland, spoke in a language Hawke couldn't understand. 

Cousland nodded before turning back to Hawke. "Then we haven't much time. The summoning will start soon. I'll explain on the way, but we need to go. Now."

Bewildered but too stunned to argue, Hawke fell easily into role of acting lieutenant. Hopefully they could stop whatever it was before it started. He'd had enough fighting to last him a lifetime.


	22. Chapter 22

Fenris stopped screaming hours ago. His voice gave out, shouting himself hoarse, begging them to stop. But why would they listen to a slave? He was bound, chained to a wall, whipped for his role in Danarius's murder, then made to watch as they tortured Anders. He was strapped to a table, sliced open, and bled. But alive. Fenris knew it. Whatever it was the magisters were planning meant Anders had to stay alive for it. It was his one hope that he clung to as he watched the horrific ritual.

They'd traveled quickly from Qarinus to Seheron, Fenris bound and gagged and kept blindfolded as they sailed. But he recognized the land as soon as they'd disembarked. Having grown up on Seheron and later abandoned on it, he knew it intimately. It was the closest thing he'd had to a home until the Church. Until Anders. But he did not recognize the fortress they dragged him into. Set on a high cliff top, looking every bit the stereotypical mad mage's vacation getaway, Fenris could only guess at their exact location. And deep in the bowels of the fortress, some foul and wretched thing that leeched blood from a man who looked as if he should have died a decade ago. Gleaning what he could from conversation between Titus and Desidario, Fenris knew Anders was to be its next victim.

Brexio and Faustinus were not in attendance, though the latter protested Fenris being taken inside the ritual chamber. Desidario chased him out with the promise that "the slave" would remain intact. For some reason, perhaps their own perverse pleasure, they wanted Fenris to watch. Anders was conscious for the first hour or two until the pain took him and he was no longer able to hold on. Fenris felt him as sure as he could feel his own heartbeat pounding in his chest.

"Once it's complete," Titus said, his sleeves rolled up as he attached a thin tube to a needle, "I'll harness the power of the Great Dragon. It's a shame such a powerful mage declined my offer. But," he said, pushing the needle into Anders' arm, "like father like son."

Desidario shook his head, arms crossed, watching him work. "How did you find out they were related?"

Titus clucked his tongue, inclining his head toward the man suspended from the ceiling. "Maric's inability to resist a pretty face was legendary. No doubt he has a dozen more bastards running around Thedas. The Maker was kind enough to gift us this one. He has the look about him, though I daresay there might be some elven blood in his veins, with Maric's propensity for the knife-ears." He glanced idly at Fenris before turning back to Anders. "He lacks the square jaw and the darker features of his father. But a trip into the Fade and a test of the blood confirms it. He is a descendant of Calenhad."

Fenris tried to understand. He knew of Calenhad from conversations with Anders regarding Fereldan history. The son of a merchant who united the barbarian tribes and became Ferelden's first king. Every true Fereldan king thereafter had Calenhad blood in them. Alistair was no exception to that. But Anders related to Alistair? Half-brother to both the former and the current king of Ferelden? Another heir of King Maric's? Not that Anders would ever want the position of king, nor would he challenge Alistair for it, even if a precedent for a mage king had existed.

"Imagine it, Desidario. Power beyond anything the Imperium has ever seen before. All thanks to the Magrallen and the blood of a man brave and stupid enough to drink from a Great Dragon."

Fenris's stomach roiled and he swallowed back a wave of nausea. Danarius would speak to him of history, of the better days of old. But despite the Imperium's current political power, geographical span, and wealth, it was simply a shadow of its former glory. And, Fenris thought, there was no chance of it ever regaining that foothold. Surely Titus was just posturing. He looked up at the Magrallen, the blood colored orb that was leeching power from Maric's body.

"Are you sure you'll be able to reign in the power once it's been released?" Desidario asked. "The blood of a Great Dragon-"

Titus chuckled low and menacingly as he worked, moving from Anders to another table out of Fenris's view. "All of the dragons under my command. Including the Old Gods that remain. Think. Uncorrupted Old Gods, untouched by darkspawn, awakened by the power harnessed here. Controlled by the most powerful magisters the world has ever seen. We will be unstoppable."

Fenris lowered his head, chains rattling as he shifted from one knee to the other, trying to relieve the pressure from the stone floor. His back burned and his arms ached. But it hardly mattered. Nothing would matter if Titus's plan came to fruition. Though it sounded fanciful to Fenris, just a dream, he learned one thing from Danarius: never to underestimate any magister's thirst for power. If Titus thought he could unleash such power, he could. Whether or not he could control it after remained to be seen.

But what could possibly be done? The chains holding him weren't enchanted. The silverite was strong, but with the power his markings gave him, Fenris could pull from the wall. Pragmatism stayed his hand. He could escape his bonds, but then what? Fight Desidario and Titus? He'd seen Desidario's strength, how good he was with both a sword and a staff. And Titus had more control over the Fade and blood magic than any magister Fenris had ever seen. To make a move now would be tantamount to suicide. And he wouldn't risk Anders' life. Not now, not when Anders risked everything to save him.

A thousand plans raced through his head, one after the other easily discarded. It all seemed so very hopeless. A flash of pain wracked his body as his markings flared; Titus cast a spell, the foul magic hanging thickly in the air. He heard Desidario chuckle even as he inhaled sharply, trying to resist the pain.

"I think-"

But Desidario's thoughts were interrupted when a crack of thunder sounded overhead. Or at least Fenris thought it was thunder. But they must have been deep in the side of the mountain, so it couldn't possibly have been. Desidario and Titus turned as one, glancing upward, and both grabbed up their staves, starting toward the door together.

"Do be a good slave," Titus said. "Watch our investment while we-"

An explosion shook the room, one chunk of the stone wall crumbling, falling, missing Fenris by mere inches. He'd only ever known one thing to make that much of an impact: Qunari gaatlok. But what would the Qunari be doing attacking the fortress? Even if Seheron was mired in conflict, constant battles between the Tevinters and the Qunari of Par Vollen, they wouldn't invade now – would they? Fenris never thought he'd be so grateful to the Qunari, though if the fortress fell and they were invaded, it might be jumping from frying pan to fire. He wasn't sure they would let Anders leave freely, knowing he was a mage.

The door flung wide, a soldier gasping as he nearly fell through it. He looked at Titus, chest heaving. "My lord – there's an army!"

"An army?" Titus asked, bemused.

"They have dragons!"

With that enigmatic proclamation, the soldier ran out just as quickly. Desidario followed, leaving Titus no choice but to come with, slamming the door shut behind as another explosion sounded from somewhere above them. Fenris wasted no time, phasing through the manacles rather than ripping them from the wall. He was no healer, but he could tell an elfroot potion from a poison, and stumbled toward a table littered with random vials of potion.

"Hang on, mage," he muttered, fingers closing over a bottle of lyrium as well as pure elfroot leaves from amidst the array of vile ingredients.

He worked quickly, breathing a sigh of relief when Anders coughed, eyes fluttering open. The pain shone on his face clearer than any emotion they'd ever shared across their bond, and Fenris shoved the vial of lyrium between his lips.

"Drink and use it to heal yourself."

Anders lay quietly for some time as the sounds of battle raged on above. Fenris watched the blue-white glow of his healing magic, held his hand as the wounds slowly knitted themselves closed. Sweat broke out on Anders' forehead, and he turned briefly to vomit on the floor. Fenris brought him water, wiped his brow, then kissed it.

"You're safe. We need to get you out of here."

"How…" Anders reached weakly for the needle at his arm and pulled it out, a thin rivulet of blood trickling from the inset of his elbow. He healed it and struggled to sit up.

Fenris tried the door, which was locked. Phasing had no effect either, and when he tried a cleanse, it backfired. Of course Titus would have taken precautions against either of them leaving. But to sit here when rescue was so seemingly close… He cast a look around the room, stalking over to Anders to press a hand to his chest, keeping him supine.

"Stay still while I think."

"Oh right, because that's always worked in the past," Anders said weakly, coughing. He took Fenris's hand and squeezed tightly.

Fenris smirked, catching sight of the statues of great warriors around the room. "I've got an idea."

"Maker preserve us," Anders muttered.

Fenris ignored him and crossed the room, wrenching away a soldier's pike. The hands, made of some kind of dwarf-mined stone, broke at the wrists and held on. It would make the throw awkward, but the added weight would be welcome.

"Wait, Fenris," Anders said, sitting up. "What are you-"

Fenris took a running start and heaved the pike like a javelin directly into the center of the Magrallen.


	23. Chapter 23

"This is definitely the life."

Fenris glanced over. He was floating in a pool of water on a raft, cold drink in hand while Anders lay next to him on another raft. Above, the sun was shining, a cool breeze blowing the leaves of the coconut trees this way and that. In the distance beyond a field of green grass, he saw a large mansion he knew was his own. Well, his and Anders'. They decided to live the rest of their lives out in Rivain, purchasing an estate nearer the ocean that came with full amenities, including servants. Very well paid servants, in fact. Fenris insisted.

But the sky, as blue as it was, flickered unusually. He looked down at his body, clad only in a pair of linen short pants, and realized something was wrong. His lyrium lines were conspicuously missing, and all his scars were gone as well. He looked over at Anders, dressed similarly. Frowning, Fenris realized further he was missing his jewelry from the Church. Of course he might have taken his earring off since Fenris's wrist cuff was taken from him, but the amulet that belonged to Justice and the arm band he refused to remove were gone.

"It's not right," Anders said, almost as if reading his mind. He sipped his drink, which had a little pink umbrella in it. "I know it's not." He sighed. "We're in the bloody Fade."

"But how?" Fenris asked, confused. He felt Anders through their bond and it gave him comfort to know the connection was still there.

"Something to do with that orb."

"Titus called it a Magrallen."

Anders shook his head, slipping off the raft. The water was only waist-deep. "I've never heard of such a thing. But then, I never studied blood magic in depth before. I bet the First Enchanter would know what it is."

Fenris slid from his own raft and followed Anders to shore. Their clothes and – thank the Maker – armor and weapons were waiting for them. He dressed quickly, accepting help from Anders with his breastplate. As he tightened the strap to his gauntlet, he gasped, looking down at his wrist.

"What is it?" Anders asked.

"My cuff."

The silver cuff with the Church's symbol, a sword crossed with a staff, sat on his wrist like it had never left. He touched it, feeling its warmth and was immediately at ease for it. Anders slid his fingers over Fenris's and smiled.

"And yours," Fenris noted, looking up. He reached up and touched the silver hoop earring in Anders' lobe. "They were missing." The silver chain that held the amulet was visible just above his collar.

Anders leaned down, tilting Fenris's chin up so he could kiss him, and Fenris allowed it, taking and giving the comfort he so desperately needed. They were lost in the Fade while their bodies likely lay on the floor of that wretched laboratory, but they were together.

"I must insist on interrupting."

Fenris pulled back, sword immediately in hand, raised to strike, but stopped upon recognizing the uniform of a Church Crusader. Another one of their lot locked in here? Did that mean that they were in the fortress on Seheron? Were they also caught in the same burst of magic that brought him and Anders here? He looked at Anders to see if he came to the same conclusion, and was struck with a wave of sorrow.

"Anders?" Fenris touched his arm, concerned.

"It's you," Anders whispered, eyes fixed on the newcomer. "It is, isn't it? Oh, Maker," he gasped, hand covering his mouth.

Fenris looked over, eyes narrowed, no longer happy to see whoever it is was if he was causing Anders this much pain. "Who are you?"

"Justice," Anders said, stepping forward, pulling away from Fenris's touch.

The man – no, spirit – nodded. "It has been a time."

Fenris straightened, sword arm dropping fully as Anders closed the distance between the two of them and embraced his former Crusader. A whirl of mixed feelings swelled in Fenris's chest. Gratefulness, relief, nostalgia, and buried deep below the excitement and happiness, he could feel his very own emotion: sorrow and jealousy. He tried to control it, not wanting to ruin what was obviously an extremely happy moment for Anders. All the same, he couldn't push away the envy entirely.

"I looked for you," Anders said, finally stepping back, holding him at arm's length. "Maker, Justice, I looked for you. I thought that you… you died. Whatever that means."

"I returned here," Justice explained. "However I could not come and go as I pleased. I was… not whole. Having been ripped from the Fade and then thrust back into it. But here the Veil is so thin, it's easier to move. When I felt you, I had to come."

"As well you should!" Anders said with a laugh. "Justice, this is Fenris. He…"

"Is my replacement," Justice finished.

Fenris stepped forward, trying not to harbor resentment toward his mage's former Crusader. They shook hands, though it felt more dreamlike than solid as Anders did.

"Anders, I had to come," Justice said again, "to say good-bye."

The smile fell from Anders' face and he looked down, shifting uneasily. "I know."

Fenris took his arm, sending a surge of comfort across their bond. He wanted to say something, but this wasn't his farewell. Perhaps their paths had just been leading up to this point. A verse he remembered from the Chant of Light, something about fate and everything happening for a reason. He used to believe it was merely rubbish until now. Otherwise, why would they be in the Fade here and now? A pure coincidence? Perhaps. But perhaps not.

"Fenris has already taken good care of you. And I can tell he'll be a match for you." Justice nodded to Fenris with a tight-lipped smile. "You're drawn to him, with his lyrium. It sings out to spirits. To the spirits that aid you. It eases their transition across the Veil. And in return, they ease the pain it brings him."

"You know about them?" Anders asked.

Fenris glanced down at the exposed parts of his skin, the lyrium lines back, glowing white and warm. They tingled a bit, feeling hot, but not unpleasant.

"Yes," Justice said enigmatically. "Now. You need to go. There are others here that shouldn't be. I feel First Enchanter Irving. Commander Greagoir. They fight a great battle. The dreamer is here."

"The dreamer?" Anders asked.

Justice wavered, his form shifting incorporeally.

"Wait!" Anders unclasped the amulet and held it out to him. "Take it. Please. It's yours."

Justice shook his head. "No, Anders. It is yours now. Keep it to remember me. But do not dwell on what has passed. Know that I am happy. I am home. You need to find yours, and never stop fighting."

Fenris felt the swell of emotion, the sadness that overwhelmed Anders as Justice faded into the thin air of the Fade. He hesitated, but pulled Anders into an embrace, arms wrapping around him protectively. Anders leaned against him quietly, face against his neck. Fenris felt the hot tears against his skin and heard the quiet sniffles, but said nothing, simply rubbing his back while he calmed down.

"I'm sorry," Anders whispered finally, straightening.

Fenris reached out, taking the amulet from Anders' hands. He tucked it carefully into Anders' breast pocket, and wiped a tear from his cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Do not apologize."

Anders took a breath and removed the silver cuff from his arm, tucking it away. "When we get back, I'll put them both someplace safe."

Fenris nodded. "Until then, we need to find the others. Are you ready?"

"Ready for this to end? Definitely," Anders said with a breath. "Let's go."

And Fenris followed him deeper into the Fade.


	24. Chapter 24

Fenris had never seen a true battle before. He'd either been sheltered from the skirmishes in Seheron, or they were guerrilla tactics, the Qunari striking hard before fading back. He fought against them when he'd been left behind in the last attack, but it was nothing to what was laid out before his eyes. On the docks, watching the ship with Danarius pull away, that had been a slaughter. This was something truly breathtaking. He and Anders stood together on a hilltop overlooking a vast canyon, two armies clashing violently below. Magic, both pure and evil, surged across the battlefield. Demons screamed and soldiers answered their vitriolic cries.

"We've got to get down there," Anders said, worried. "First Enchanter Irving is down there."

Fenris was less concerned about Irving, knowing him to be a very capable mage, and more concerned about leaving the Fade. But the only way out was likely through the seemingly unending wave of demons that pounded against the army. He would fight, or die fighting. From what he knew about the Fade, a death here simply meant they would wake up. Or would Titus have thought of that and found a way to truly kill them?

A shadow passed overhead suddenly and dropped down in the shape of a dragon, forcing them to stop their descent, rock crumbling underfoot and rolling down the mountainside. Fenris flung out an arm to keep Anders from falling. The dragon took human form and Fenris's eyes widened with recognition.

"Vovanis!"

Vovanis bowed, one arm across his middle, the other sweeping his cape out from behind him. "Your place is not here. The dreamer has asked of you directly."

"Dreamer?" Anders asked. "Wait, why can I understand you now?"

"In the Fade, all things are possible," Vovanis said carefully. "It is what we make it. It is shaped and formed even by the most mundane of mortal minds."

"Gee, thanks," Anders muttered.

Fenris scoffed at his indignation. "What… what dreamer, though?" he asked cautiously.

He heard the word before, however he'd heard it spoken in the proper Tevinter tongue. _Somniari_ were rare, usually claimed by demons before they were able to harness their true power.

"Are you talking about Titus?" Anders asked. "Is he one?"

The way Titus had pushed Anders into the Fade upon their first meeting, Fenris thought he finally understood. But not why they had to go directly to him now. It was dangerous. Too dangerous. Titus would definitely have the upper hand in the Fade,; the army of demons that fought against them now was evidence of that. They needed to be down there, fighting with Irving and Greagoir and the others.

"No," Vovanis said. "I will show you."

He transformed back into a dragon, turning and crouching low, waiting. Anders exchanged a look with Fenris, both hesitant, the uncertainty pulsing across their bond in full force. And it was Anders who moved first, taking him by the arm and pulling him atop the dragon's back, gripping his scales tightly. Fenris in turn took Anders around the waist.

"I hope you're right about this, mage," Fenris hissed as they took off.

Far below them, the battle raged on.

"If I'm wrong," Anders shouted back over the din, "you can tell me 'I told you so'."

Fenris only hoped he got the chance.

-

They flew for what felt like hours but couldn't have realistically been more than a few minutes. Time moved differently in the Fade, as it did in dreams. The landscape changed from mountainous and barren to lush and green, a beautiful forest where they landed in a meadow dotted with tents all flying the Theirin flag. Anders slid off Vovanis's back, Fenris following, both of them confused as they approached the largest tent.

A tall, broad-shouldered man clad in Theirin colors emerged. His shoulder-length hair was white with age, but his eyes were as alert and hard as any military man's. A silverite sword hung at his side, a shield strapped to his back. He looked ready for battle, and all at once, Fenris understood.

"King Maric."

Anders frowned, brow furrowed, surveying him. "…Are you really?"

Maric nodded. "And so I am. And so here you are."

Fenris nudged Anders a little, pushing him forward. Confusion and pain flittered between them, and Fenris thought he understood. He'd never known his own father, and for Anders to know that Maric was that man, it must have been terrifying. He stepped forward with him, fingers brushing Anders'.

"Is it true what Titus said?" Anders asked finally.

Maric pursed his lips. "Perhaps not all of it. I didn't sire a dozen bastards. I wasn't…" He broke off, shaking his head, possibly disgusted by the rumors of his promiscuity. "But… yes. I see it now," he said, peering eagerly into Anders' face.

"There are so many questions I want to ask."

"Soon," Maric promised. "But now there is a problem in the Fade. I can feel it."

"Titus is here," Fenris said, impressing on them the urgency of the situation. As much as he desired for Anders to get the time he deserved to speak with his father, they couldn't forget about the battle, about their brethren fighting for them.

Maric bared his teeth in a feral grin. "So Aurelian Titus has decided to grace us with his presence? Let's take the fight to him."

Vovanis clawed at the ground and bowed his head, a clear invitation for them to embark. Maric whistled sharply and dozens of men poured from the tents, awaiting orders. Anders and Fenris climbed onto Vovanis's back.

Maric hoisted himself up in front of Anders, drawing his sword and pointing toward the battle. "Men, form up! Our friends need us this day and we'll not disappoint them. Drive the demons back! Drive them back to the Black City! Show them that the Fade is ours and make them rue the day they tried to take it from us! Death or glory!"

The men echoed his parting cry.

"Maker," Anders muttered. "Now I know where King Cailan got it from."

Maric grinned over his shoulder and Vovanis took once more to the sky. They flew quickly through the Fade, the sky changing colors a dozen times before turning flat black with no sign of moon or stars. An ominous looking silver obelisk jutted out from the landscape, and Vovanis landed smoothly at the base of it. Aurelian Titus sat, legs crossed, elbow propped against the arm of his marble throne, with his cheek resting nonchalantly against his fist. Maric was the first to slide from Vovanis's back, drawing his sword once more. Fenris and Anders followed more cautiously, while Vovanis himself stepped back.

"So good of you to come," Titus said, sounding and looking bored. "I didn't think you wanted to miss this."

He raised his free hand, and around them from the very stone sprung thousands of buildings. Large castles and towers formed from the rock, and the sky lightened to a brilliant dawn with mountains off in the distance. Fenris cringed, taking his own sword in hand. He recognized it, if only because he'd seen it in tapestries before. Titus's dream: a full and realistic recreation of the Tevinter Imperium. It was the empire as it had been a thousand years ago, reborn into something great and terrible.

"You should not have come," Titus jeered, getting to his feet. "You could have made a life, straying to the gaps between dreams. There are safe places in Fade, places I would not have followed you. If only you'd stayed away."

"And I could say the same of you," Maric replied. "Instead you kidnap my son, threaten to summon the Old Gods and disturb the peace of Thedas."

Titus scoffed. "Peace. There is no peace in Thedas, old man. It's at war with itself as it ever was. And you are old news."

The ground shook beneath them and behind Titus opened a gaping maw, a fountain of blood breaking forward from the crack in the earth. Anders brought his staff to the ground bringing a circle of protection around them. Demons shimmered into being and threw themselves against the silvery shield, bouncing off it and howling in rage. 

"Fool!" Titus laughed. "You think you can take on me? Aurelian Titus, the greatest somniari the world has ever seen? I _made _this world, and I can easily unmake **you**!"__

__He threw a hand in the air, a crackle of lighting shooting down from the sky to connect with his fist. It powered the spell he brought forth, the head of a great dragon that looked all too solid. It opened its mouth and Fenris shouted, but too late, there was nowhere to go. They were going to die. He turned away from the flame, shielding Anders, waiting for the pain._ _

__It never came. Maric, shield in hand, standing tall, diverted the flame and the great dragon disappeared. He took a step outside of the protective circle._ _

__"Wait!" Anders shouted, but Maric ignored him._ _

__The demons saw their chance and leapt at him. Maric flicked a hand and they disappeared before they could sink their claws into his skin. Titus looked, for the first time since Fenris met him, visibly shaken._ _

__"What? But how-"_ _

__"Your reign is over, Titus," Maric said, armor shimmering in the bright sunlight. The obelisk started to crumble, the marble throne melting. "But it never really began."_ _

__"This world is **mine** ," Titus snarled, holding a fireball in the palm of his hand. He threw it at Maric who easily deflected it with his blade. "Tevinter will be as it was in legend. A dream made reality! The Magrallen's magic is our legacy!"_ _

__Maric continued his approach and Titus tried again, red-hot lightning bursting forth from his eyes and palms as he attempted to hold him off. The energy hit Maric directly in the chest, Anders crying out in shock. But the lightning passed harmlessly through him and dissipated._ _

__"You've made a very grave mistake," Maric said, his voice cold and hard. "It's empowered by my blood."_ _

__Titus scrambled back, tripping over the broken remnants of the throne and the obelisk. He held up a hand, but it did not stop the inevitable._ _

__Maric lifted his sword, a vicious smile on his lips. "You are not the dreamer here. I am."_ _

__With one swift stroke, his sword sliced cleanly through Titus's arm and neck. Fenris watched the magister's head fly from its body, rolling toward the edge of the cliff, and falling over. Titus's body slumped to the ground, and all at once, it was done._ _


	25. Chapter 25

Anders hated the ocean almost as much as Fenris did. But that didn't stop him from enjoying his time above deck as they sailed back to Denerim. After the death of Titus, he spoke to Maric at length as they traveled back through the Fade to find the others. Fenris listened quietly, feeling a nagging sense of longing and jealousy, but also pride that his mage finally learned of his real family relations. No longer was his father a harsh man who'd given him to the templars when he was a child. He was a king, powerful and proud of his children. He didn't disdain Anders for being a mage, and encouraged his rebellious views.

They'd reached the army where the gaps in the story were filled in by Cousland and Zevran, Irving and Greagoir, and Hawke. When Titus started drawing more power into the Magrallen, Vovanis sensed it. Had sensed it for months now, as the blood of a great dragon was in Maric's line. Instead of controlling the dragons as Titus wished, his own hubris was his undoing. Vovanis sought Cousland and Zevran in the south, entreating the aid of the trusted Grey Warden. Rallying the other members of the Church in Kirkwall and finding Irving and Greagoir's party followed, and tracking the call of the Magrallen to Seheron, they attacked.

Being pulled into the Fade was an unfortunate and unexpected side effect of damaging the Magrallen. Anders glossed over that part, not explaining quite how it happened, and Fenris's gratitude was palpable. He looked over at him now, smiling to see his Crusader looking a bit green atop the deck of the ship they'd requisitioned.

"Stop laughing at me, mage," Fenris growled. "I don't see why the dragons wouldn't return us to Denerim or even Kirkwall."

"Don't pout," Anders said, hand sliding over the railing to cover Fenris's. He removed his death grip from the wood and pulled him close. "They did more than enough for us."

Fenris stepped easily into his embrace, though felt a slight bit of embarrassment as Greagoir stalked by, head up and gaze averted awkwardly as if he didn't see them.

"Don't mind him," Anders said, lips against Fenris's ear. "Nothing against the Church rules in this. He's just a prude."

"Still," Fenris muttered. "I'd rather we waited until we were in private."

It was the wrong thing to say. A flash of jubilation flew across their bond and Fenris found himself being pulled down below deck. He protested, but it fell on deaf ears, and as soon as their cabin door clicked shut, Anders pressed him against it, kissing him earnestly.

"Mmph! Anders," Fenris managed between kisses. "Mage, stop."

Anders pulled back, looking at him carefully. "Say it. Say it and I will stop. Tell me." He cupped Fenris's cheek, thumb brushing across his lips. "Fenris, I love you. I love you and I don't care who knows it. I was a fool for running away and I don't want to anymore. I couldn't bear it to lose you again."

Fenris covered Anders' hand with his own, leaning into the touch. A year ago if someone had told him this is where he would be, in the arms of an insane mage who was hell bent of mage freedom, who spoke with no filter and all the passion in the world, he never would have believed it. Not in a thousand years. But now he couldn't imagine life without Anders. And while he was free, truly free now that Danarius was dead, Titus and Desidario dead, and Faustinus and Brexio scattered to the four winds, he could make a life for himself elsewhere. But what would be the point of a life without Anders?

"You won't lose me," Fenris promised.

He returned the kiss this time, which was much slower but no less fervent. There was nowhere else he wanted to be except here with his mage. Anders broke the kiss, lips sliding down his jawline toward his ear. Fenris surrendered to his touch, skilled fingers undoing the ties of his tunic. He bemoaned the loss of Anders' hot mouth against his skin, and gasped when it returned, tunic falling to the floor. Anders kissed lower, tongue flicking across one of Fenris's nipples, he glanced up. A delicious wickedness filled Fenris, feeling the projected emotion as if it were his own. Anders dropped to his knees.

"No," Fenris said, then laughed at the disappointment he felt from Anders. "No, I only meant… I want… on the bed. I want to take you. If you will let me."

"Maker's breath," Anders sighed, pressing his cheek against Fenris's hip.

Fenris closed his eyes, one hand atop Anders' head. His mouth was so close, and the front of Fenris's leggings were already tenting. He wanted it. But he wanted to do it properly. To make love to Anders. And perhaps in the future, allow himself to be taken. To wash away the final memories of Danarius and give himself freely to a mage who would love him and challenge him. A companion and a friend, not a master.

Anders kicked off his boots and shed his clothing as he crossed the small cabin. He stripped to his smalls and flopped into bed, pulling the tie from his hair which fell silky and golden over his forehead. He reached out a hand toward Fenris, and Fenris went willingly, stripping as well. He wore no smallclothes, and smirked almost self-consciously at the pleased expression on Anders' face, and the emotion across their bond.

"You are absolutely gorgeous," Anders whispered, pulling Fenris to lie atop him. "Bloody gorgeous."

Fenris felt the heat rising in his cheeks at the compliment, and kissed Anders to cover his embarrassment, and to shut him up. They'd stopped previously at the waistband that he hesitated when his fingers met the fabric of Anders' smallclothes.

"We don't have to," Anders reassured him.

Fenris responded with a growl, and tore the smalls from his body, dropping the shredded pieces to the floor.

"Well. I guess we have to now. After all, it's only poli-Ah!"

Fenris licked Anders' length from base to tip, curious as to if it would silence him. And it did. He concentrated, his experience limited and he tried not to think of Danarius as he pleasured Anders. It was easy, as the mage wouldn't shut up for long, whispering words of encouragement, gasping and groaning Fenris's name when he did something in particular that he enjoyed.

"Stop!" Anders begged. "Stop, stop or I'll come."

Fenris smirked. "Isn't that the point?"

"Yes, but I don't want to do it in your mouth. Rather I'd like to do it when you're inside me."

"You're extremely vulgar," Fenris chuckled. "Very well. How… would you like it?"

Anders took his hand, palm over his own and whispered a spell. A greasy substance coated his fingers and Fenris raised an eyebrow.

"Believe it or not," Anders smirked, "that's not a spell that I created. Old defensive magic, but what it was used for originally is anybody's guess as all it's ever used for now is fucking."

Fenris looked from Anders to his grease-slicked hand and shook his head, trying not to grin. The mirth soon left him, however. "I've never… done this before."

"I trust you," Anders said, legs spreading as he brought his knees to his chest. "Start slowly. I'll give you more if you need it."

Fenris started slowly, brushing one finger against Anders' hole, enjoying the quiet shudder that shook his body. With his other hand he gently stroked Anders' cock, thumb circling the tip, keeping him hard and distracted as he prepared him. He had no desire to hurt him, though he knew Anders was no wilting flower. His mage was strong. Powerful. Able to resist the will of demons. Someone who faced the wrath of the magisters for him. Who wasn't afraid to stand up for what he believed to be true and right.

"Ah! Yes…" Anders sighed as Fenris pressed a finger inside him.

"You're beautiful," Fenris whispered unconsciously.

Anders let out of a soft laugh. "Am I now?"

Fenris squeezed his cock, pleased when Anders cried out, and slid another finger inside him. He watched Anders' face scrunch and relax with each stroke, saw him lick his lips and listened as he coaxed another moan from him. Danarius never would have paid this much attention to him, and he wouldn't have cared about pleasing his old master beyond what was needed to bring him to completion. But this careful, slow torture, Fenris found extremely erotic and more intimate than anything he'd ever done with Danarius. And he realized. It wasn't just love, but trust. He would give himself to Anders. Soon. Sooner than he thought he would have.

"Andraste's flaming knickers, Fenris, just fuck me already, please," Anders whined.

"Does Irving know what a blasphemer you are? You're likely to be kicked out of the Church with that mouth."

Anders opened his eyes incredulously. "Like I care one whit about the Church right now with your fingers in my arse. Are you going to fuck me?"

Fenris took pity on him, moving between his legs. Another spell from Anders and he was able to coat his own cock to ease the friction. Carefully he guided himself to Anders and slowly slid inside him, unable to keep himself from gasping. Never before had he felt anything like this. Tight and warm, and across their bond, buzzing like electricity, love and adoration, trust and respect.

"Fenris. Love. Open your eyes."

He did, saw his mage, saw the quiet trust in his expression, the warmth and love he found there, feeling it as well as seeing it.

"I love you, Fenris."

Fenris choked back a sob, and didn't answer as he started to move. Anders didn't seem to care that he hadn't responded, urging him faster, reaching up to grip his shoulder. He pulled him down and they kissed again, Fenris thrusting his tongue into Anders' mouth, mimicking the movement of his hips. It was fast and frenzied and sloppy and brilliant. He laughed against Anders' shoulder, one hand propping him up a bit while the other gripped his lover's hip. It didn't take him long to come, spurred on by the dual sensation of his own physical pleasure and Anders' emotions. He thought to pull out, but long legs wrapped around his waist keeping him there, forcing him to come inside, and he nearly collapsed, feeling the warm, sticky evidence of Anders' release on his belly.

"Oh," Anders groaned. "Oh, Maker."

"Fenris."

Anders laughed. "Was that… did you make a joke?"

Fenris grumbled, pressing close, almost as if he was trying to crawl inside Anders' skin. "It has been known to happen, mage."

Silence for a minute, then, "I believe that's the second joke you've made since I've known you."

Fenris sighed and pulled out, rolling over to reach down onto the floor for a rag. He came up with the ripped remains of Anders' smalls and cleaned them both up the best he could before pulling the blankets up and over them both.

"Quick nap," Anders said, yawning. "Then we'll see if the ship has any proper bathing areas."

"Likely not," Fenris said, his eyelids feeling heavy.

"Then we'll go about the ship stinking of sex and making everyone jealous," Anders murmured into Fenris's hair as he wrapped himself around him.

Fenris held him, too tired to respond. He fell asleep slowly, one of Anders' legs pressed between his, his fingertips rubbing slow circles around the small of his back. Anders was his mage, and before he drifted off, he promised himself that he wouldn't ever let any harm come to him. And the last thought he had before sleep claimed him was that he knew that Anders felt the exact same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an epilogue-y last chapter, but after everything they've been through, they deserve it. One more true epilogue to come to tie up some loose ends and we're finished! Sometime tonight after edit, guys. Thanks for sticking with me through this monster. Will be on a slight hiatus as work eats my time through the holidays, and DAI consumes the non-work half of my free time. <3


	26. Epilogue

Nearly a month after the tumultuous events on Seheron found Fenris and Anders back in Denerim, taking a much deserved break. It'd been at Fenris's insistence that they return to the capital to speak with King Alistair.

"You can't put all of that into a letter," was his reasoning.

They _had_ sent letters to the king, assuring him of their victory, explaining the plot to kidnap him as best they could, with Irving and Greagoir's permission. Two weeks of menial duties, cooking and cleaning, scrubbing pots and peeling potatoes, and they'd done enough to make up for Anders' desertion. Irving delighted in telling them they missed a spot each time he passed one of them mopping a floor. Fenris supposed it was a just punishment, all things considered. Anders had no intention of running away from the Church, after all, and his official file conveniently left out the part where he'd gone to find Fenris on his own without strict orders from a superior.

Alistair wrote back with more questions than they had answers for. Fenris urged the trip, speaking with Greagoir regarding it. They hadn't spoken of King Maric, leaving the First Enchanter and Crusader Commander to believe they'd done battle with Titus inside the Fade, thus making them somewhat of a heroic pair. Anders swum in the adulation, talking about a great victory in such detail that Fenris almost believed it. In private, however, they marveled at the king's strength, how he held on, until at last he perished. The severing of the Magrallen's connection left his body broken and bereft of life, the magic that held him together now gone, the shell that was the former king disintegrated into ash before the room caved in.

Anders bemoaned the loss of the magic they could have studied, but Fenris knew he was grateful that such magics were lost to the rubble and ruin. While Irving and other responsible Church mages might have used the knowledge for good, there were too many possibilities of things going wrong once again. Fenris was happy to leave it in the dust with the rest of the magisters' dreams of domination and power. He shuddered, nightmares of what they saw in the Fade still lingering at the edge of his mind upon waking. Having Anders next to him, holding him, helped drive away the memories.

"Well this is it," Anders said, once they'd been escorted to the king's study.

"I will be with you while you explain," Fenris reassured him, a flittering of gratitude across their bond.

The door opened and Alistair entered, waving away the scribe that tried to follow. "I can write my own reports, thanks very much."

The door closed on the annoyed expression in the old man's face, Alistair letting out a heavy breath before he crossed the room. Fenris watched as they clasped forearms, Alistair gripping Anders on the shoulder. He was pleasantly surprised, wincing only slightly as Alistair did the same for him. Thankfully his markings did not flare at the contact. Alistair ushered them into seats and took his own behind the desk.

"Well. I'm told you have quite a story to tell. Shall we dive right in?" Alistair asked, a cheerful smile on his face.

Fenris looked at Anders and nodded. Anders, swallowing, leaned forward a little in his chair. "Well, your majesty. I think we should start with the part where we're half-brothers."


End file.
